Blythe's Story
by Namaste
Summary: She did it because she was lonely, and because he reminded her so much of John. Blythe, John and Greg House's history together, using new information from Season Five's "Birthmarks," and short chapters of about 1,000 words. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Blythe would have told the truth, if anyone had ever asked.

She did it because she was lonely, she would have said, and because he'd reminded her so much of John.

She'd moved across the country to be with John, to start this new life, this adventure of marriage with him. She'd had so many dreams, imagined the two of them together, building their home, building their future.

But instead, she was alone. John would be there for a few days at a time, then his squad would get new orders. He'd be gone, and she'd be there, in this strange place, with hours and nights and days that stretched out in front of her.

She was surrounded by other women, women who had married into this world just like she had. But she didn't fit in with them. Not yet. She didn't speak their language, didn't understand the code they all knew, the shorthand for the number of days their husbands were deployed, for the bases they'd been to before. She didn't fit into the hierarchy of rank that snaked through every corner of the base.

Calling her own mother or sisters at home only widened the space between them. She'd hang up the phone and hear nothing but the hum of the refrigerator, the engines of a passing jet fighter.

John rarely wrote. When she'd asked him to -- during one of those brief stays at home -- he'd said he was saving up stories to tell her later, when they'd grown old together and he'd run out of things to say.

She went to the officer's club for dinner one night because she couldn't stand the silence of her own home. The dining room was packed, with everyone paired off. Husbands and wives standing together, eating together, talking together. The empty apartment suddenly seemed like a refuge.

Blythe turned to leave, but he was at the door. She thought she recognized him, and he smiled, reminded her that he was attached to John's squad, but said he was temporarily grounded.

"Inner ear infection," he said. "It messes with balance."

He invited her to share his table, "Call me Phil," he said, and when she hesitated, he promised he'd be a gentleman.

"My mother would never forgive me if I abandoned a lady in her moment of distress."

She thought of the dark apartment, the long hours alone until dawn. "If you insist," she said.

They parted after dinner, after she'd thanked him. "We should do this again sometime," he said.

And they did.

One night they lingered over drinks.

Another night, he walked her home.

"I was homesick for my mother's peach pie," Blythe said after another dinner, another walk to her door. "So I made some, but I'll never be able to eat it all by myself. Please, come in and have a piece."

His hair was the same shade of brown as John's, cut close to his scalp in the same military precision. He had the same build -- the same muscles melded into shape by Marine drill sergeants. He was an inch or two taller, though, and she found herself on her tiptoes when she kissed him, tasting the sugar and cinnamon and nutmeg from the pie.

"I should go," he said.

Blythe nodded, but kept her hand on his arm, and he stayed.

It happened only once. They both knew it had been a mistake. He'd apologized as he snuck out into the early morning darkness.

Blythe spent the day thinking of John, picturing what would happen if he knew, wondering if she should just leave. Go back home. Admit she'd failed -- not just that night, but in believing she could live in John's world. But she told herself to wait, not make a rash decision, not to compound one mistake with another.

John was home three weeks later, and swept her up in his arms. "New assignment," he said, when he finally put her down. He showed her the paper with a Marine air station in Hawaii listed after his name. "No more long deployments for a while," he said. "We can finally be together."

They were in Hawaii when she learned she was pregnant. The doctor estimated her due date, and she did the math, swallowed once, looked down at the floor. She felt tears in her eyes, saw two roads stretching out in front of her -- one dark and hard, the other a path she could walk with John, and with this new life that was growing inside her. A future for all of them.

She looked up at the doctor. "You must be wrong," she said. "John didn't get home until the end of that month."

The doctor put down his pen and studied her. She forced herself to not look away until he finally shrugged. "I could be wrong," he said. "It's hard to be precise this early." He stood up, told her she could get dressed, then stopped at the door. "I guess we'll find out in about six months."

Blythe reached for her clothes. "Seven months," she said.


	2. Chapter 2

The baby was two weeks late by one estimate -- a week early by the one she'd given John. Blythe kept quiet during those final weeks, swallowed back every complaint she had about the time, about swollen ankles and sleepless nights.

At the base chapel, she'd sit on an empty bench and repeat silent prayers that the baby would be safe, but arrive late. She'd never been a church goer, wasn't much of a believer, and she couldn't quiet that voice that kept telling her that after everything she'd done, she had no right she had to ask God for another favor.

But she did.

"Do this for John," she'd whisper.

He'd seemed so happy when she'd told him. He bought a box of cigars to pass out to his buddies, and told her he wanted to name the baby after his brother, if it was a boy.

That night, he lay next to her, talking about how his own father taught his sons to hunt and fish and fight, and how he'd been tough, but fair. She wondered if he was telling bedtime stories to the child growing inside her. After he fell asleep, she lay there, wondering what he would say if he knew the truth.

"Do this for the baby," she prayed, as she leaned against the hard wooden pews.

The baby had done nothing wrong. She -- or he, Blythe reminded herself -- shouldn't have to pay for her mistake.

When the first due date went by, she cried, and told John she was just tired.

Greg was finally born at 3:07 on an early June morning. Even through the haze of the drugs they'd given her, Blythe could hear the baby's cries, then the nurse leaned down over her, smiled and told her it was a boy.

He'd been wrapped in a blanket by the time they finally gave him to her, and he stopped crying at the sound of her voice.

"There now," she said. "Shhhh."

His eyes opened and she thought for a moment that he'd focused his gaze on her face, but then the nurses took him away to be weighed and measured.

When John first held him, he looked down into Greg's face. He didn't say anything for a few moments, and Blythe wondered what he saw, whose face he saw looking back at him. "He looks like your father," he finally said, but decided Greg had his nose. Blythe didn't argue.

"He definitely has your lungs," she said, and held out her arms for the baby as he began to cry.

She held him close, whispered to him, and he quieted again. John was right. He had her father's long features, and as she looked down at him, thought maybe he really did have John's nose.

Maybe the doctor really was wrong that first time he gave her a date. Maybe Greg really was John's child.

"You're crying," John said, and gave her his handkerchief.

"I'm happy."

The nurses shooed John out after visiting hours, but left Greg with Blythe.

She unwrapped the blanket, and his feet kicked at the air once they were free. He began to fuss a bit, and she held him tight against her breast, hummed an old song that she'd learned from her mother.

Blythe let her fingers run gently over his head, feeling the fine bones under his skin, the warmth of his small body. Greg had a small, bright red birthmark on his head, just over his left temple, visible through the fine wisps of blond hair that covered his scalp.

"Who'd he get this from?" Blythe hadn't noticed when the nurse entered the room. "Mom or Dad?"

"I don't know," she said. "Are birthmarks hereditary?"

"Sometimes," the nurse said. "Not usually."

Blythe held Greg a little tighter as the nurse came around to the side of the bed with the bassinet. He'd nearly fallen asleep, and her arms would feel empty once the nurse took him back to the nursery. She pulled the blanket back around his legs, tucked it in around him, and kissed the top of his head.

"My father has a birthmark like that," the nurse added, when Blythe finally let him go. "So does my grandfather. It just reminded me of them." She looked back with a shrug and a half-smile before pushing the bassinet away from the bed and out the door. "It probably doesn't mean anything."

Blythe lay awake that night, listening to the sounds of the hospital, thinking she'd be able to pick out the sound of Greg's cry from the nursery if he called out for her, but it was silent.

She'd studied herself in the mirror before she went to bed, combing her hair, looking for a red birthmark she knew wasn't there. Now she concentrated on images of John's head, of the days when he'd just had his hair cut and it was cropped so close she could see his scalp. If he had a birthmark, she couldn't remember it.

She closed her eyes, and found a different face haunting her thoughts, the man she'd last seen in San Diego. All she could remember about him was the way he'd smiled, the way he'd moved, the way he'd apologized.

Blythe rolled over, stared out at the hallway, at the light from the nursery. "It probably doesn't mean anything," she told herself. She felt a tear run down her cheek and she wiped it away with her hand. "It doesn't mean anything."


	3. Chapter 3

Somehow, it worked.

Somehow, in those first days after John brought Blythe and Greg home, they became a family -- maybe not the one that Blythe had once dreamed of, but one she loved and wanted to protect.

Somehow, Blythe could almost forget everything that had gone so wrong when she saw John pick up the baby, dangle his keys in front of him, and laugh as Greg reached for them.

Somehow, her own secret made it easier to forgive John's complaints when Greg's cries woke him in the night before an important flight, because of the way that John would hold him the next night and walk the hall with him until he fell asleep.

Nothing was perfect, nothing was what she expected, but somehow, it was good enough.

But even then, the fear never quite left her that somehow, it wouldn't last. As Greg grew, Blythe kept looking for signs that would betray her, that he'd take on the features of the man they'd left behind, rather than the one who came home to them.

Greg's hair grew in, covering the birthmark, but then she saw something in his smile: the deep dimples in his cheeks that neither John nor she had. If John ever noticed, he didn't say anything.

Greg was nearly two by the time John's parents finally saw him -- a brief vacation on their way to John's new posting in North Carolina. Greg hid behind Blythe's skirt while John's mother held out a cookie.

When he finally stepped closer, John's mother held his face in her hand for a moment.

"He doesn't look very much like you, John," she said. "Are you sure he's yours?"

Blythe felt her stomach tighten, but then John chuckled, and his mother laughed, and ruffled Greg's hair. "At least he has my eyes."

She looked up at Blythe, and Blythe saw a familiar shade of blue. Her mother-in-law's eyes weren't quite as bright as Greg's, but they were close enough. Maybe she just wanted to believe that they resembled hers. Maybe it was all the evidence she needed, so Blythe nodded.

"I always thought he had John's nose," she added, and John's mother shrugged.

"Maybe," she said, then changed the subject to their holiday plans.

A few months later, Blythe had chicken on the stove when John walked in the door of their tiny base duplex. He held it open a moment longer.

"You remember Phil, right?" John asked. "We were stationed together in San Diego. I told him to come for supper."

Phil lingered for a moment at the doorway. "John insisted," he said.

Blythe froze, looking at him, looking at John. She thought she'd been ready for anything, but never expected this. She felt lightheaded, felt her skin go warm, but gripped the spatula in her hand, focused on what was important: Greg, John, their family.

"That's all right," she said, then nodded and turned away. "Please, come in."

She heard the door close, but when she glanced back, she saw Phil leaning against the far wall, as if he was anxious to keep his distance. She could see differences between him and John now, the past few years telling on their bodies in different ways. John had lost the lean body of his youth and filled in with muscle. Phil still had the tall, rangy body he'd had the last time she saw him.

"Phil's going to be leading another squadron here," John said. He stepped up to Blythe, leaned around to kiss her cheek. "He just got his assignment last week."

Blythe took the last pieces of fried chicken out of the pan, put them on the plate and turned off the heat. The cornbread she'd made earlier was on the countertop, fresh beans were simmering on the stove.

"You're here all alone?" Blythe kept her back to Phil. It was easier just to think about what was in front of her -- the hot oil, the chicken, the beans. She knew what to do with those.

"For now," he said.

"Phil's getting married in a few months," John said. He leaned against the counter, filling the space between Blythe and Phil.

"In June," Phil added.

"I told him that you'd show his wife around once she gets here," John said, "show her the ropes."

"Sure. I'd love to." A wife would be good. He'd have his own reasons to keep their secret. Blythe finally turned around and gave them both a smile. She almost said something about knowing how hard it was to be new and alone in a strange place, but held back.

She saw Greg out of the corner of her eye, standing at the doorway, staring at the stranger in his kitchen. "It's OK," she said to him, then turned to Phil. "He doesn't like meeting new people."

Phil nodded, but John stepped across the kitchen, lifted Greg into his arms. "This is Greg," he said, and carried him across the room. "Greg, this is Captain Phillips."

"You can call me Phil."

Greg stared at him.

"Too bad you're not getting married here," John said. "Greg will be three years old in June. That should be just the right age for a ring bearer, don't you think?"

Phil turned his head slightly to the side. "Three?" he asked.

"He's a little small for his age," John said.

"He's the perfect size for his age," Blythe said. She could almost see Phil running numbers in his head, adding and subtracting. Maybe he would figure it out, but as she looked at John, at the way Greg leaned his head against John's shoulder, Blythe knew that she couldn't take that risk, wouldn't give him a reason to finish counting, would find a way to make him believe that Greg belonged to John.

She stepped away from the stove, put her arm around John's waist and kissed his cheek. "He has John's nose, don't you think?"

Phil glanced at her, then at John, and finally at Greg. He smiled again, and his posture eased slightly. "Yeah," he said. "I guess he does."


	4. Chapter 4

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Blythe was going to show Phil's new bride around the base, walk her through the red tape at the NEX, introduce her to a few people. And then Phil and his wife would go their way, and she, John and Greg could go theirs.

Sure, they'd meet sometimes, Blythe had thought. There would be parties for the Fourth of July fireworks and holiday gatherings. They'd be friendly -- they'd wave and exchange pleasantries -- but that would be it.

But she'd liked Jenny. Jenny told jokes that made Blythe laugh. She read the same books as Blythe, and introduced her to a few new writers: Heller and Kesey and Kerouac. They didn't always agree, but it was fun to talk to someone from time to time about something other than toys or military tactics.

Most afternoons, once Greg was down for his nap, Jenny would stop by for coffee, and they'd turn on "Guiding Light" and "As The World Turns," gossiping about the characters as if they were real people.

Sometimes Phil stopped by to pick her up, but only stayed when John was around. Those nights, Blythe could hear the two men in the living room, shouting at the TV during a game while she and Jenny sat in the kitchen, and Greg wandered between the two rooms, sitting between the two men on the couch for a while, then back into the kitchen to push his toy cars on the linoleum.

Blythe and Phil never spoke about what had happened in San Diego. The few times they were alone together, they'd both go silent. It was as if the past could disappear just by ignoring it. Or maybe that's just what she hoped would happen.

She knew the safe thing was to keep Phil far away from them, no matter how much she might like Jenny, to avoid every risk that something could slip. But John liked them too. And so did Greg.

Greg would bring Jenny a book, and climb into her lap while she read to him about the Three Bears or Pinocchio or Davy Crockett. Phil would toss him a football, never caring if he caught it or not.

Blythe kept telling herself that it wouldn't last for long. They were military families. They were Marines. No one ever stayed in one place for long. This wouldn't last. At the same time, she thought about how Greg never saw his grandparents or his aunts or uncles. And for now, at least, he had a taste of what a normal life was like. It was good for him, Blythe thought, so she told herself that it was worth a little risk.

At Christmas, Phil gave Greg a bag filled with toy soldiers.

"Not soldiers. Marines," Phil corrected her, and sat on the floor with Greg, lining them up into formation around the base of the Christmas tree.

John stood above them, sipping a beer. He shook his head. "He's only going to lose them," he said. "I'll be finding them all over the house."

"Then I'll help him pick them all up," Phil said.

Blythe turned away and went into the kitchen where Jenny was peeling potatoes. Blythe didn't like the way her thoughts wandered sometimes, the way she'd wonder what would have happened in some other world, in some place where Phil really would have been Greg's father.

It was ridiculous to even think about it. She didn't love Phil. She loved John. And John loved Greg, and Greg loved John. And John loved ... she broke off the thought. This was the part of the puzzle she could never complete. She knew that John loved her, but could she still say that if he knew what had happened? Would he still love Greg? She could never come up with an answer that she was sure was the right one, so instead, she did her best to ignore the question.

She reminded herself each time that this had been her choice. This was her secret to keep, and this was her family.

"The potatoes are ready," Jenny said, interrupting her thoughts. "Would you like me to set the table?"

Blythe glanced over, saw the pan on the stove, the flame turned up high beneath it. "You don't have to do that," she said.

"I know. I want to."

Blythe smiled. "All right, thank you. Could you get the tablecloth?" She pointed toward the hallway. "It's in the closet."

She opened the oven door. The small turkey inside had gone golden brown, and she could smell the sage and celery in the stuffing. She took it out, and had just placed it on the counter to cool down when she heard Jenny giggle.

She was standing at the doorway, the tablecloth in her hands, looking into the living room. She motioned Blythe over.

As she stepped beside Jenny, Blythe could see Phil and Greg, still sitting on the floor, their men spread out between wadded pieces of wrapping paper. John was lying on the floor in front of them, positioning his own men behind a box for cover.

"I'm going to have to put in a call for air support," John said.

"Too foggy," Phil said. "All the planes are grounded."

"Marines aren't afraid of a little fog, are they son?"

Greg scooted over to a spot between the two men, and moved a handful of his Marines across enemy lines to John's side of the floor.

Blythe watched the three of them maneuvering their tiny green soldiers. Phil was good for Greg, she told herself again, and maybe he was good for John as well.

Greg gripped of his men tight in his fist. "Boom!" he shouted, and knocked over some of Phil's Marines with a swipe of his hand. "Boom!" he yelled again, and took out a half-dozen of John's.

"Hey," John said, "whose side are you on anyway?"

Blythe laughed. "His own."


	5. Chapter 5

She wasn't jealous.

She wasn't.

Blythe wondered if she could make that statement come true if she repeated it a dozen more times -- two dozen.

She wasn't jealous.

Blythe sighed.

She was. She wanted to draw Greg close to her, have him sit in her lap, and have her arms around him as if he was some sort of talisman as Jenny sat on the couch, nursing her baby.

Blythe remembered the feeling of Greg at her breast, of his soft skin against her own, of the way he needed her for everything. Now he ran down the hall looking for some toy or the other, and slipped away from her grip.

She didn't regret the idea he was getting older, she didn't really want to hold onto his babyhood. She loved seeing him grow, seeing him take on the world. She even enjoyed watching his stubborn nature develop from the infant who would scream out his demands to be held to the boy who'd defy his father and go hungry, rather than eat his spinach.

But she wanted more. Another child. One for John, even if he never knew the truth about Greg. A brother or sister for Greg, so he'd have someone else important in his life, no matter how often they moved. A baby for her, who'd enter the world without being tied to her sin and guilt through no fault of his -- or her -- own.

They'd tried. Even before they left Hawaii, when Greg was still learning to walk, Blythe had started planning for it, keeping track in her head of the best days each month to start this new life.

Before Greg had turned three, John had turned to her in bed one night.

"Greg's getting so big," he'd said. "It'd be nice to have another baby around here."

She'd nodded, and later started marking those dates that she'd been tracking in her head on a small calendar tucked into John's night stand.

Anytime she was late, she'd find herself imagining some new future, that small life starting to grow inside her. She could almost sense it there, taking shape, becoming real. It never was.

Once, after two weeks had gone by, she whispered something to John that she may have a surprise for him, but warned him that it was early yet. He'd kissed her, told her that he was certain she was right, and that he hoped they'd have a girl this time.

By the next morning, the dream had ended. She'd walked with Greg to the park, and cried as he climbed up the slide alone, slid down alone, and climbed up alone again.

When Jenny told her that she was pregnant, Blythe had hugged her, and told her she was happy for her. She was. But at the same time, she felt a deep emptiness and ache in her womb even as Jenny's belly grew. She helped talk Jenny through all the aches and pains, all the swelling, and how she'd feel the baby's kicks grew stronger with each passing month.

Blythe knew she wasn't the only one who was hurt. John's lovemaking had grown almost desperate in the months while Phil and Jenny waited for their child, as if he could create another baby for them by sheer force of will.

And he grew short tempered with Greg, correcting him over every mistake, yelling at him for every slammed door or broken glass. Blythe always assured Greg that Daddy wasn't mad at him. She wiped Greg's tears, and told John that he needed to calm down, that he was scaring Greg. John always apologized to her -- and to Greg. He'd sit quietly afterwards and tell her that he was just under some extra stress. He always said it wouldn't happen again.

Another baby, she thought, would take the pressure off of Greg to be the perfect child that John imagined he could be, and give John another reason to be happy, another reason to remember how much he loved being a father.

But she was beginning to fear that maybe, that other baby would never come.

Now, she watched Jenny as she fed her new daughter, then gently patted her back until she burped.

Blythe had been glad to see that the baby girl they'd named Susan had resembled her mother, with dark hair, rather than the blond hair Greg had been born with, and that had darkened to a medium brown. There was no birthmark that Blythe had been able to see, and only the faintest resemblance to Greg in the shape of Susie's eyes.

But it still hurt to see her there in Jenny's arms. To feel her skin, to hear her cries. Blythe tried to remind herself that there was still plenty of time. She and John were both young. There'd be another baby. There had to be.

Blythe reached over as Greg rushed past her, wrapped him tightly into her arms and kissed his forehead. When she let him go, Greg stood there a little longer, staring at the little girl. He took a step closer to the couch.

"Do you want to hold her?" Jenny asked him, and Greg shrank back, shook his head.

Jenny smiled. "It's all right. You won't hurt her."

Greg looked up at Blythe, and Blythe nodded, lifted him up onto the couch next to her, and spread his arms apart. "You have to support her neck," she told him.

Jenny scooted forward, then placed the baby on Greg's lap, keeping her hand firmly under Susie's head until she was sure she was settled.

"There you go," she said. Jenny looked up at Blythe. "This will be good practice for when you have another one."

Blythe blinked hard, fought back the tears as she looked down at Greg, at the way he grinned when the baby gripped his finger in her hand.

"You're going to be a good big brother, aren't you?" Jenny asked Greg.

"Yes," Blythe said. "He will be."


	6. Chapter 6

Maybe it was the isolation.

Maybe it was because in Greece, for John's first overseas posting, there was no Phil or Jenny or baby to distract her. No large base housing neighborhood filled with other children for Greg to play with.

Maybe it was because John spent too much time thinking about what could happen to his family whenever he was out at sea, and he had too many hours of briefings about unrest in Cyprus and too many days flying air patrols in a region that seemed so unstable compared to home.

Maybe it was because Greg was getting older, growing stubborn and trying to knock down every boundary line his parents drew.

For a while, Blythe even thought that maybe it was just her imagination, but as months passed, she knew that wasn't true. The truth was there, waiting for her to discover it: Greg was happier when John wasn't home.

Greg loved his father -- Blythe was sure of that -- but he was quieter on the days that John was with them. He'd play in his room, rather than run through the apartment with his toys.

He'd turn the pages of his books, making out the words for himself, rather than demanding that someone read to him.

Outside, in the neighborhood near the docks where the Marine and Navy families lived, he'd stick close to John and Blythe if they were all together, but when he was alone with Blythe, he'd rush ahead of her down every alley, discovering the ancient city and the small shops hidden just out of sight.

John always said it wasn't safe, but Blythe loved watching the light in Greg's eyes with each new discovery. Besides, she would tell John, they were perfectly safe there in the city.

She'd take Greg to see the ruins and he'd climb the ancient stone steps and touch columns and bits of old statues. He'd come home with his hands dirty and the knees of his jeans grimy from the bits of dust and dirt driven deep into the denim.

"You need a bath," John would say anytime he saw Greg after one of their trips, cutting off the stories that Greg had about everything he'd seen. "We can talk once you get cleaned up."

Blythe knew how to set guidelines. She made sure that Greg obeyed her when they were home alone. He went to bed when he was told to, brushed his teeth, did every chore she gave him. But there were exceptions to every rule.

John never saw the exceptions. He didn't believe in them. There were reasons for regulations, he said, and Marines obey them.

"He's not a Marine," Blythe reminded him, but John shook his head.

"While we're here, he is. This isn't home," he said. "It isn't safe here."

John would never tell her anything about the reports he heard from the military, never told her what the pilots were looking for out there on their flights, but she could see the look in his eyes after a briefing, saw the lines deepen on his face whenever he spoke of the men under his command.

"Maybe you and Greg should go back home," he said.

But Blythe couldn't imagine being separated from him for months -- not when they still had a chance to be together. And breaking up Greg and John now seemed like it would only drive them apart further, the passing time creating a new wedge she couldn't fix.

John finally gave in, but he had more rules. There were things Greg couldn't do, and places they couldn't go.

Blythe told herself that even then that she could make it better. She could still see the way John's eyes would soften when he saw Greg sitting at the table, drawing with his crayons. She still saw the way that Greg would run to greet him when the ships pulled in to port.

She could make this work, she thought. She could still bring them together.

"You're too hard on him," Blythe said to John one night, after he'd scolded Greg for not taking his glass to the sink after he'd had milk.

"He knows the rules," John said. "Boys his age need discipline. Believe me, I know. I was a boy his age once too."

Blythe reached out for his hand. "And I remember you telling me about a few things you and your brothers got away with back then," she said. "That didn't seem to hurt you in the long run."

John took her hand in his. "I know, but times were different then. Over here -- " he let the phrase hang there for a minute, and stared out the window at the city around them, the signs filled with a language neither of them understood. "It's different now," he finally said. He lifted her hand, kissed the back of it. "I know what I'm doing. He's my son after all, isn't he?"

Blythe felt her stomach clench, as if John's words had been a physical punch, and one he'd intended. Every sense of guilt she'd ever had came surging back in a split second, like a tidal wave or a tornado. A lightning bolt from a clear blue sky. Every time she thought she could relax, forget what had happened, a moment like this loomed before her, and she was never prepared.

"Isn't he?" John repeated.

She looked into his eyes, wondering if she saw some bit of doubt there, if he'd finally added everything up, or if he was just teasing her, trying to make some sort of a joke. It was a joke, she decided. It had to be.

Blythe swallowed hard, and forced a smile onto her face. "Don't be silly," she said, "of course he is."


	7. Chapter 7 Letters 1965

April 2, 1965  
Athens, Greece,

Dear Jenny,

By the time you get this, we'll be back in the States. John received his new assignment three days ago, and I've been packing for the flight home next week. We're headed to San Diego this time. I wish it were San Francisco, so we could see all of you. I imagine Susie's walking now, getting into everything. I remember what Greg was like at that age. Maybe we can still get together. Phil and John can coordinate their leave and we can meet somewhere in the middle.

Greg's excited to start school. The International School here doesn't have kindergarten, so I've been teaching him his letters and numbers. He's already reading everything he can get his hands on, even if it's just old comic books that John gets from the men on the ship. I know Greg will only have a few weeks before summer, but I think a regular schedule will be good for him, and he should make friends faster in class. I worry about him spending so much time alone, but I'm sure that'll change quickly.

I think John will be happy to have us all back home too. He worries about everything here, but I've loved it. There's been so much to see and do. I never thought I'd see the Acropolis with my own eyes, and I think Greg has learned a lot about other parts of the world just in these past few months. I know you said Phil has the same concerns as John, but convince him, if you can. It's worth it.

I'll drop you a note once we get settled with our new address, and can't wait to hear how everyone is doing. I miss you all.

Love,  
Blythe

___________

June 4, 1965,  
San Francisco, CA

Dear Blythe,  
I hope Greg doesn't mind me sneaking a note for you in the same envelope as his birthday card. I'm sorry to say I almost forgot his birthday. Everything seems to be moving so fast here. Susie has me running from the moment she wakes up until she goes down at night. I don't know what I'll do when there are two of them.

Yes, that's right. I'm due in September. I would have told you earlier, but just never got around to it. I've been thinking of you, though, and miss all the help you were last time. To be honest, I also spent a solid month craving those ginger cookies of yours. I sent Phil all over town trying to find me ones as good as yours, but of course he couldn't find anything that hit the spot.

I wish we could have waited until Susie was older. It would be easier if she was at least out of diapers by the time the new one comes along, but I guess the Good Lord knows better than we do. Phil's certain the baby will be a boy this time, but then he thought Susie would be a boy too. I hope he won't be too disappointed if it's another girl. He always says that little girls are harder to raise than little boys. Don't get me wrong -- he's a good father, but it'd be nice for him to have a son to raise.

Still missing you (and your cookies),  
Jenny

___________

June 15, 1965  
San Diego, CA

Dear Jenny,  
I've enclosed the recipe for my ginger cookies, so crave no more. And I'm glad for you that you're expecting another baby. It may seem sudden to you, but, if I'm being honest, I'm bit jealous too. Two babies will mean double the work, but they'll also mean double the joy.  
I'm sure Phil will be happy if it's a boy or a girl, but I know what you mean about fathers and sons. John signed Greg up for Little League, and he takes him out nearly every day to throw him the ball and help Greg learn how to catch and hit. John's determined to make a pitcher out of him. It's been good for them to spend more time together.

I'll be thinking of you, and still hope that we can manage to get together sometime soon, though not until after the baby comes.

Love,  
Blythe.

______________

December 12, 1965  
San Francisco, CA

Dear Blythe,

I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to write. I kept meaning to drop you a note before Karen was born, but then never got to it. After she was born, everything was so busy, and now here it is nearly Christmas.

As you can imagine things have been hectic here, but good. Susie loves her new little sister. Well, most of the time. She's had problems giving up her crib, but we got her a new "big girl" bed, and that's helped. You know how hard it is for children her age to share.

The baby has her Daddy wrapped around her little finger, just like Susie did, and Phil loves to rock her to sleep whenever he's home. He's been called out on maneuvers so many times, though, that it sometimes seems like he's never here. And when he is here, sometimes it seems like Karen is the only thing he notices.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't even mention that, but my sisters would never understand. They don't know what it's like to be married to a Marine, and what it's like for their husband to have so many responsibilities. He seems so distracted sometimes that I'm worried he'll just drift away. I know you'll understand what I mean, and I feel like you're the only person who would.

It's not much of a Christmas card sentiment, is it? Let me at least close with best wishes for you and John and Greg for the holidays, and make an early New Year's wish that we all see each other soon.

Merry Christmas,  
Jenny


	8. Chapter 8 Letters 1966

Feb. 11, 1966  
Gilroy, CA

Dear Blythe,

I just found your Christmas card. It was in a box of things that Phil brought me before he shipped out. It's been so busy I didn't even open the box until now.

So -- yes. I said "shipped out." Phil got his orders to report to Pleiku just after Karen was born. He didn't want to tell me until the holidays. With luck, he should only be in Vietnam for a few months to set up new air stations there. Between you and me, I'm worried that he'll never come back. I know he's working behind the lines, and he keeps telling me he's perfectly safe, but I can't help it. The news from there makes it sound like everything is getting worse. I can never decide whether to watch the news so I know what's happening, or shut it off so I can try to ignore it. Susie keeps asking when Daddy's coming home, and I don't know what to tell her.

We decided it would be better for the girls and me to stay with my parents while he's gone. We found a little house just down the road from their place, and now Susie has cousins to play with and distract her from thinking about her Daddy so much. I wish it worked that way for me.

I don't know how I'd manage on my own at the base, but at the same time, no one here understands what it's like to be a Marine. I don't know if I can even explain it to them, but I know you'll understand, even if I am a little jealous that you still have John at home. Sometimes it seems like we spend all our lives trying to enjoy what we have, and knowing it can change at any time.

OK, enough depressing news. I see from your photo that Greg is growing like a weed. I'm sure he's a handful. Is he still playing baseball, or is that over for the year? I still find it hard to believe he's in school already.

Please write me back when you have time.

Miss you,  
Jenny

__________

March 1, 1966,  
San Diego, CA

Dear Jenny,  
I'm so sorry to hear about Phil. Every day it seems more men are shipping out from here, and I just know John's going to get that call soon. I wish there were some way that I could keep him here with us, but I keep telling myself that I knew what I was getting into when we got married.

I'm glad that you're with family. I always regret that Greg doesn't see his cousins very often, and I suppose that's why I get worried that he doesn't seem to make friends easily. I hate the idea of anyone being lonely or alone, maybe because I always hate being alone. But as you said, we still have John for now, and we should cherish these days while we can. We never know what will happen next.

Love,  
Blythe

_________

August 12, 1966,  
Gilroy, CA

Dear Blythe,  
I don't know how the past few months went by so quickly. I kept meaning to write you, but it's been so busy I never seem to have the time. I started helping my parents with their books. My Dad always hated numbers -- he'd rather spend his time out in the fields -- and my mother gets overwhelmed by the bills at harvest season every year, so I'm finally putting my college degree to work on something other than coming up with a household budget.

Phil always tells me he's doing fine when he writes (which isn't often enough), but he doesn't actually tell me anything important in his letters. He talks about the weather and his men. He asks how the girls are doing, but he never tells me how he feels. I suppose that's just like a man, though, right? He still hopes to be home by Christmas, but we don't know for sure.

What else? Susie is finally potty trained, which makes my life easier, but now Karen is starting to crawl and get into everything.

Sorry this is so short, but I'm afraid if I don't get it in the mail today, it'll be another six months until I get back to it.

Take care,  
Jenny

___________

Aug. 30, 1966  
San Diego, CA

Dear Jenny,

You're right. Men would rather give up state secrets than admit they're worried or scared. At least the men I know. Anytime I ask John about being deployed, he says he's not worried about himself, just how Greg and I would do on our own. The only way I know he's thinking about it at all is when he tells Greg that he'll have to be the man of the house someday.

Greg's in his second season of Little League. He's even pitched a few games, which made his Dad happy. I'm thinking of signing him up for basketball this winter, though. John was a wrestler when he was in school, but I think it would be good for them to have Greg try something of his own.

I signed Greg up for piano lessons this summer too. He hates practicing his scales, but loves to sit and figure out tunes by ear. You remember how much he used to love listening to music, and how he'd mimic songs when he was little. He still remembers almost every song he hears. I took piano lessons until I was sixteen, but never took to learning new songs the way he does. It's wonderful to see.

I just hope we'll be here long enough for Greg to play in his Christmas recital. It seems like everyone on the base is moving someplace else lately, and I think John will get his transfer papers soon. I'm doing my best to not think too much about where he may be going.

Miss you,  
Blythe


	9. Chapter 9

"Why now?" Blythe hated the way she sounded, like some petulant child -- like Greg when he was tired and cranky but fought his bedtime for as long as he could. She also knew that it didn't make any difference what she wanted. John had come home before noon, and she'd seen the envelope in his hand, knew what was inside just from the shape and color of it.

Transfer.

She was actually happy when she first read it. John was being sent to North Carolina, not Vietnam. That meant he'd be safe. He'd still be with them. They'd still be together. And she hadn't been to North Carolina before. It would be somewhere new to explore.

Then she got to the bottom of the page. He'd have to be there on Monday. They'd have just a few days to pack, for Greg to finish school here and start all over again there.

The Corps had even secured a flight for them. On Thursday. Thanksgiving.

"Can't you ask them to just make it a day later?" Blythe asked. "Or what about a day earlier?"

John shook his head slightly. Blythe saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his eyes focused in on her. It was the same body language she saw every time Greg asked for something he couldn't have. "I don't have a say in it," John said. "If they tell us to fly then, we'll fly then."

Blythe managed a slight smile, put her arms around John's neck. "I know," she said. "I suppose I should be glad I haven't bought a turkey yet."

John smiled down at her, his shoulders loosening slightly at her touch. "Maybe they'll feed us turkey on the plane."

"Is that a threat?"

He winked at her. "It could be a five star restaurant, and it still wouldn't be as good as yours."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"I'm sorry about the timing," he said softly, and kissed her. "Maybe I can make it up to you later."

"We'll manage," she said, and smiled, then let him go.

John nodded, apologized again and said he had to get back to his desk and start sorting through his papers.

Blythe stood in the middle of the kitchen after he left, and tried focus on what she needed to do, but found herself trying to memorize the shape of the room, the view outside her window, Greg's drawings on the refrigerator. She wondered when she'd started to think of the anonymous base housing as home, rather than a temporary place to live.

She shook her head and took a pencil and paper from the drawer, and began making lists of everything she needed to do in the next three days. She began with everything she needed to pack -- her grandmother's quilt, their clothes, Greg's toys, the photos and important papers -- then she wrote down everything that she had to cancel: the newspaper, the phone service, Greg's piano lessons, his basketball, school.

The first few times they'd moved, it seemed so easy, but Greg was younger then, his world revolving around just her and John. Now, he was finding his way in a bigger world and just starting to fit in, just starting to make real friends. Maybe that was why it hurt so much more this time, because this time they were taking something away from him.

Even Thanksgiving.

Blythe walked over the school during the afternoon to notify the office that they'd be moving and collect Greg's records. She waited for outside for the bell to ring, waited until she saw Greg walk out the door.

Greg didn't say anything when she told him, just sat on the bench next to her, his feet swinging in the air as she told him how exciting it would be to meet new people and make new friends.

"What about the recital?" he finally asked. He'd been practicing his piece for weeks now, repeating the melody over and over again during his lessons. He'd hum the tune when he ate breakfast, his fingers mimicking the key strokes on the edge of the table.

"There'll be other recitals," she said.

Greg shrugged slightly, stared across the playground where some boys were throwing a red rubber ball against the concrete and bricks, chasing it down and throwing it again.

After a PTA meeting, she'd once listened in on a conversation between other mothers about how much easier it was for children to attend school on base. Marine kids had all been through it before, they said. They knew what it was like to be the new one in class. She'd thought to herself that it was easy for them to say that when their children had brothers and sisters to play with too -- a built in support system that traveled with them.

Greg would be alone. Again.

No, she reminded herself. Not alone.

"At least we'll all be together," she said. "Isn't that nice?"

Greg shrugged again, watched as the ball bounced high in the air, landed just beyond the grasp of one of the boys.

He turned to her. "What about Thanksgiving?"

"We'll just have to have it a few days late," she said. "That'll be good, though, won't it? We'll have our own private holiday all to ourselves while everybody else just has a Saturday. That'll make it even more special."

He turned to look at her, his eyes staring deep into hers. She got a sense for a few seconds that there was more going on inside his head than she'd ever imagined, more than she'd ever know.

Greg finally looked away, shook his head. "That's stupid," he said. "Thanksgiving is on Thanksgiving. Not on Saturday." He went back to watching the ball game.

"Can't we make an exception this time?"

He looked back at her, and rolled his eyes.

She wondered again how he'd grown into this boy from his babyhood so quickly. Sometimes it seemed like it was happening overnight, and she was missed it every time she closed her eyes. Blythe leaned down, kissed the top of his head.

"Don't worry," she said. "As long as we're all together, I'll figure out a way to make it work."


	10. Chapter 10

There was no card from Jenny at Christmas. No letter. No photos.

Blythe told herself that it didn't mean anything, tried to convince herself that Jenny was just busy -- with the girls, with her parents farm. Maybe Phil had come home safely before the holidays, and she was so caught up with having him home that cards just slipped her mind.

On New Year's Eve, Greg begged John and Blythe to let him stay up until midnight.

"You're too young," John said, but Blythe could hear a lighter tone in his voice that made her think he was open to changing his mind.

Greg must have picked up on the same tone. "I was up nearly that late when we flew here last month," he said.

It had been a long day for all of them -- with a snowstorm in Chicago that grounded their flight for four hours, and lost luggage that slowed them down for another two hours once they got to North Carolina. Greg had sagged against Blythe in the airport terminal, his head on her lap while they waited for John to track everything down.

John looked up at Blythe. "What do you think?" he asked.

Greg turned to her, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised. He clasped his hands together in an innocent pose that she didn't quite believe. "Please?"

Blythe promised to think about it. That day, Greg did every extra chore he could find. He took out the garbage. He dried the dishes. He cleaned his bedroom without Blythe asking him to.

"You weren't even this good for Santa," she said when she saw it.

"That's because there is no Santa," Greg said. It wasn't a guess, it was a statement. Blythe wondered if John had told him, or one of the older boys teased him during basketball practice at the gym.

"You thought there was a Santa last week," she pointed out.

"No I didn't," Greg said. "I figured out last year that Santa doesn't shop at the base NEX. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to miss out on any presents you'd put Santa's name on."

There was snow in January, the first snow that Blythe had seen in years, and the first snow that Greg could remember. He ran outside even before breakfast, and compressed the snow into tight snowballs that he threw at everything that caught his eye -- the fence, a telephone pole, a rustling bush, even birds flying high above the neighborhood. He was taking aim at a neighbor's dog when Blythe knocked on the window, shook her head and he turned and instead tossed it at a fire hydrant.

John was at the window when Greg's throw fell short of a colonel's passing sedan, and he rushed out, grabbed Greg by the shoulder, marched him back inside and grounded him on the spot for a week.

"No TV, no music, no playing outside," he said.

Blythe saw the panicked look on Greg's face, and he stared out the window at the light snowfall that was still falling.

"But --" Greg started to say.

John held up a hand. "I can make it two weeks. You have to learn respect for other people's property. You could scratched the car or broken a window."

Blythe knew it wouldn't do any good to argue with John when he was mad. She prayed the snow would stick around for a few days, at least until he'd calmed down and she could talk him into softening the punishment, but it was gone by the next afternoon.

When it snowed again three weeks later, she woke Greg early and led him to the back yard. "How about we make a snowman this time?"

The first crocuses bloomed in the base gardens in March and soon the trees were filled with fresh growth, the brown branches seeming to soften into green overnight.

After San Diego and Greece and Hawaii, she'd forgotten how quickly things changed in the spring everywhere else, how the ground thawed and there were suddenly flowers where there had only been bare ground before.

Everything was changing. Greg outgrew his jacket and his tennis shoes, her sister was having another baby, her father was getting ready to retire.

And in April, Phil showed up at their door.

John swung it open, held out his hand, led him inside and got him a drink.

"I heard you were getting transferred here," John said.

John hadn't mentioned it to Blythe before, and he apologized now and said it had slipped his mind. Blythe sighed, but took a seat across from Phil. "What about Jenny and the girls?" she asked. "When do they get here?"

She thought of the last picture she'd seen of them, the baby in Susie's arms, Susie's hair a light brown tied into pigtails. She wondered if the baby looked like Phil or like Jenny, or if she looked like her sister. Blythe forced down the thought that maybe she looked like Greg.

Phil looked down at the whiskey in his hand. "I don't know," he said, and took a drink. "She's still out at her folks' place. She says she doesn't want to come."

He let the ice tumble against the glass for a few seconds, then looked at Blythe. "I was hoping maybe you could talk to her, and get her to change her mind."

Blythe sagged back against the chair. "I can't --" she said, then shook her head and started over. "I don't know what I could say."

"Tell her that it's not as hard as she remembers," Phil said. "Tell her that the girls will adjust to moving just like Greg has." He sat forward on the couch, the glass gripped in his right hand. "Please?"

Blythe wasn't sure she could convince Jenny that was true when it was hard enough to convince herself. She already had enough lies to atone for, but she finally nodded. "OK," she said. "I'll try."


	11. Chapter 11

Blythe sat with a single piece of paper propped against the sugar bowl. Phil had scrawled Jenny's phone number across the top, and his numbers were followed by her own handwriting, some words written out carefully, others crossed out and replaced.

She'd been up half the night thinking of what to say, finally picking up the pen to write what was in her mind, hoping it would help her focus. She was still working on the list as Greg sat eating his cereal, watching her scribble out one word, then add another.

Blythe waited until she was alone, just in case she said the wrong thing, in case she gave herself away. She knew she wouldn't say anything about that night with Phil -- she'd spent too many years hiding that secret to just let it loose now -- but she didn't want John to learn how worried she was sometimes, or Greg to hear that she was sometimes just as upset about moving as he was.

Now she calculated the time in California, and finally picked up the phone, held the receiver against her ear and dialed the first number, waited for the dial to rotate back into place, then dialed the second.

Blythe heard static on the line, then the first ring from across the country. A second ring.

Jenny picked it up after the third. "Hello?"

Blythe took a deep breath. "Jenny? Hello, it's Blythe."

There was a slight pause on the other end. "Blythe? Is something wrong?" she asked. "Is Phil all right?"

"He's fine." Blythe told herself she should have written instead. It would have given her more time to think about what to say, and she wouldn't have caught Jenny by surprise. "He gave me your number."

Blythe could hear Jenny sigh, and heard other voices in the background, a child's voice she guessed was Susie. "He asked you call, didn't he?"

Blythe looked down at her notes, the script she had imagined. They would have started with small talk about the weather, move on to the children and eventually Blythe would slide in a reference to Phil. But this conversation wasn't going according to her plan.

Finally, she nodded, though she knew Jenny couldn't see her. "Yes." The truth seemed like the best option. "He's worried. He thought that maybe if you had someone to talk to about coming here, it might help."

Jenny paused and Blythe waited her out, heard the sound of a lighter, then Jenny taking the first drag on a cigarette. "It's not just about the move."

Blythe could picture Jenny as she was a few years ago, sitting in the kitchen, a cigarette held loosely between her fingers as she tipped ash into the gold metal ashtray on the table. She had to remind herself that Jenny must have changed since then. It had been more than three years since she'd last seen her. There'd been another baby. So much must have changed.

"It is a little about the move," Jenny finally said. "The girls are happy here and Susie's started preschool. They like it here." She took another pull on the cigarette. "I like it here," she said. "I'd forgotten how nice it was to be with family."

"Phil's your family too," Blythe said softly.

"I know, Blythe. I really do, but ..." Jenny inhaled deeply, exhaled. Blythe pictured the smoke from the cigarette hanging in the air around her. "It's hard," she said. "I want to do what's best for the girls, but what if what's best for them is to stay here?"

"What's best is keeping your family together." Blythe didn't need any notes for this. "The girls will grow up having birthdays and suppers and Sunday picnics with their dad. Isn't that better than preschool?"

"And they'll grow up having to move all the time, always going to new schools."

"They'll adjust," Blythe said.

"Like Greg has?"

Blythe let the question hang there. They both knew the answer to that. She looked back down at the paper, finding a lifeline in the words. "Moving isn't all bad," she said. "You get to see new things, and that's been good for Greg. You should see him every time he discovers something new."

She could hear Jenny blow out cigarette smoke like a deep sigh. "You make it sound like it's easy to make something bad into something good."

Blythe shook her head. "It's not easy," she admitted.

"Maybe," Jenny said, "maybe it could work, but it's not just about moving. It's --

She stopped herself again. Blythe leaned forward with her elbows on the table.

"Phil's not the person you think he is," Jenny finally said. "He's not ... he's not the man I thought he was."

"He's been gone for a year," Blythe said. "Maybe he just needs time to --"

"It's not just about time. There were --," she stopped again. "Things weren't that great even before he left. There were a lot of problems, and I didn't even realize what was happening until I had time to think about it." Jenny's words picked up speed, as if she couldn't stop herself, or didn't want to. "There were times he'd come home late, and then I'd find out that he wasn't on duty, or he'd stop off at the Officer's Club for a drink, and stay there for hours. Or he'd leave in the morning when he had time off, and didn't even tell me where he was going. I didn't feel like I could trust him, and I hated myself for feeling that way."

She was quiet again. Blythe felt like she should say something on Phil's behalf, but didn't know what. She could picture Phil in the Officer's Club years ago, a friendly smile and a welcoming face in a place where she was a stranger. He'd seemed so comfortable there: he had his favorite drink, his favorite appetizer, his favorite waitress, his favorite table. She wondered if he'd been more at home there than in his own home, where he had a wife and daughters who depended on him.

"I don't expect him to be perfect," Jenny said, interrupting Blythe's thoughts, "but how am I supposed to give up everything the girls have here and make them move again and again for a father who may not be there when they need him?"

Blythe looked at the paper and her notes, remembered how they were supposed to help her convince Jenny to leave her old home and bring her family back together here. Somehow, though, she'd only ended up with more questions of her own.

"I don't know," she said, and crumpled up the paper. "I don't know."


	12. Chapter 12

Blythe had a newspaper in front of her, but wasn't reading. For ten minutes, she'd scanned the headlines, but she couldn't remember what she'd read. Instead, she listened in as John and Phil watched a baseball game.

John was rooting for the Indians, Phil had the Yankees. Greg lay on the floor between the two of them with his math homework. John leaned forward, tapped Greg on the shoulder and pointed to a man on the field.

"See how the batter's watching the pitcher?" John asked him. "He can guess what pitch he's going to get just by the way the pitcher holds the ball. Pay attention, and maybe you'll get a home run at your next game."

"How many home runs have you ever hit?" Phil asked.

John grunted, leaned back in his chair again. "That's not the point."

Phil laughed, and drank his beer.

Phil had been spending more time with them the past few weeks, showing up in time for dinner, helping John change the oil in the car, watching the games with him, cheering at Greg's Little League games.

"He shouldn't have to sit around the house all by himself," John would say every time she asked about it.

Blythe thought Phil should devote his time to wooing Jenny again. If he had, maybe she'd be here already. At least the two of them were still talking, and he claimed Jenny was thinking of moving in another month or so.

Phil cheered as the Yankees scored a run, and Blythe put down her paper and took time to really look at the two men, side by side.

She wondered now how it was the Phil had ever reminded her of John. It wasn't just about the difference in their bodies as they aged. It was bigger. It was more important.

Phil never wanted to go home. John, she was starting to see, could think of nowhere better than home.

John had his favorite coffee cup, and his favorite place to drink his coffee – on the rocking chair near the front window.

He had an old pair of worn out shoes he stashed next to the door, and slipped on the minute he came home, leaving his flight boots or dress shoes in their place.

He had a favorite spot on the couch – the left side, near the reading lamp – and would shoo Greg out of the seat if he was there. He had his magazines piled up in descending order on the end table next to the lamp.

She teased him once that he was getting old and set in his ways. Now she was realizing that when he was home, John wanted to shape the world around him until it was just the way he liked it. Sometimes that was a good thing. Usually, Blythe told herself. Usually it was good. It was good that John's world was built around her, and around Greg and not on some easy distraction.

But sometimes he forgot that his world had to be flexible enough for other people to live in too.

John liked to have supper on the table at seven o'clock, right after Walter Cronkite signed off for the night. One day when Greg wasn't there, he refused to wait and ordered Greg to go to his room when he got home five minutes later, calling after him that he needed to learn responsibility.

Blythe had saved Greg a plate, and took it to him when John went outside to talk to the neighbors.

"I hate him," Greg had said, ignoring the drumstick he held between his fingers.

"No you don't," Blythe had told him. "You're just upset with him for a few minutes."

"Yes I do," Greg had insisted. "He's mean."

Blythe had sat beside Greg on the bed, put her hand on his shoulder. "He's just --" she'd paused, and tried to think of some way to explain things in a way a nine-year-old would understand. "It's complicated."

She knew he hadn't believed her. She also knew that John thought he was doing his best for Greg, but sometimes it was hard to tell where to draw the line with John when he pushed too hard.

But now, seeing them together and happy, it was easier to remember that he really did want the best for Greg, and he really did care. John knew every grade on Greg's report card, and would sit with him as he practiced his multiplication tables, and quiz him on state capitals.

Phil hadn't been able to tell her Susie's favorite color, or Karen's first word.

Blythe knew there had to be some middle ground out there, something between the way Phil seemed to run away from his family and the way John held his too tightly.

John suddenly looked up from the TV, saw her watching them.

"What?" he asked. "You look like you've got something on your mind."

Phil and Greg were looking at her now too, but Blythe shook her head. "It's nothing," she said. "I was just thinking."

John shrugged after a few seconds and turned back to the game. So did Phil. Only Greg kept watching her, his eyes drawn together as if he was working out some puzzle. Blythe smiled at him and looked back at the paper. When she glanced up a moment later, he was still studying her.

"It's nothing," she whispered to him, and winked.

He finally turned back to the TV and Blythe took one more look at him and John and Phil.

If the only choices she'd ever have in life were between a man who cared too much, and one who cared too little, she knew she'd make the same choice she already had. Maybe John pushed too hard sometimes. Maybe he didn't always see the lines he was about to cross. So then she could be the one to point those lines out to John, and to create that middle ground Greg needed, even if John couldn't.


	13. Chapter 13

It finally happened on a Tuesday.

John was sitting on the front porch when she came back from the store, and watched her walk up the steps with a bag in her arms as he if was trying to memorize her.

He took the bag from her, opened the door and carried it through to the kitchen.

He turned to her and she saw it again, that gaze that seemed hungry to examine every inch of her: the checked pattern of her blouse, the color of her lipstick, the way her hair had come loose and hung loosely against her neck.

Blythe knew without asking what had happened, but prayed she was wrong. "When?" she finally asked.

"Friday," John said. "I ship out Friday."

"So soon?"

"Things are getting hot there. They need me."

Blythe was sure he'd volunteered to go early. She'd seen the look in his eyes during the news each night, the tightness in his jaw with every film clip of injured soldiers.

Vietnam. It was the word everyone on the base seemed to refer to in code.

"He's been deployed," wives would say when someone asked about their husbands.

"He's in country."

"There."

Now John would be there too.

Blythe found herself staring just as intently at John as he'd been looking at her. There were the first flecks of gray in his hair now, and lines drawn deeply across his forehead and between his eyes as if pulled into a permanent scowl. He held himself stiffly, as if he could hide his own emotions, but she could see cracks in his mask – something deep in his eyes that betrayed him.

She felt a tightness in her chest and turned away before she started thinking too much, start worrying too much. She didn't want him to see her cry.

Blythe focused on the bag on the counter; taking out canned tomatoes and putting them on the shelves, putting the flour and sugar in the pantry and the milk in the refrigerator. She hoped John didn't see her hands tremble.

"How long will you be there?" she asked.

"A year." John leaned against the counter. "I think you and Greg should go home and stay with your folks while I'm there."

Blythe stopped, the refrigerator still open, her hand on the door. Home. It sounded good. Greg liked her Dad. He could learn so much from him, and Dad had the patience to teach him that John didn't. Mom would spoil him, and Greg would finally know what it meant to belong somewhere.

But that's what Jenny had said too, what she had talked about in her letters, and now Jenny was gone. The summer had passed and she'd never left California. Phil said something once about needing to find an attorney. Blythe didn't have to ask why.

Home was tempting, but Blythe had given in to temptation once before. She wasn't sure if she could trust herself again.

She closed the refrigerator. "I don't know if that's a good idea," she said. "Greg's already started school, and I'd hate to pull him out."

"He's changed schools before."

"Yes, but he doesn't have to this time."

John crossed his arms over his chest, cocked his head slightly. "Aren't you the one who always says that Greg needs a place to call home?"

"There's no reason why this can't be home."

Blythe didn't think Greg would ever consider this base – or any base – as anything like a real home, but there was no reason why he couldn't be happy here. Maybe staying in one place a little longer actually could make him happy.

John shook his head. "I don't know," he said, but then smiled. "At least Phil would be here if you needed him. He could keep an eyes on things for you."

Blythe turned away, took the empty bag from the counter, and folded it carefully. She didn't want to think about the last time Phil had kept an eye on things, but couldn't stop herself. Maybe things could be be different, though. She knew who Phil was now, and at least this time, she wouldn't be lonely. She'd have Greg. And he'd have her.

She turned back toward John, put a hand on his arm. "We don't have to decide this right now, do we? We've got a few days, and I don't want to waste them arguing."

They told Greg that night. John drove them into town for pizza and bowling, and sat across from Greg and Blythe in the chairs next to the alleys.

"You'll have to be the man of the house," John told him.

Greg didn't cry, didn't say anything. Blythe had worried he might laugh or even cheer when he heard the news, but he didn't. Instead, he looked from her to John and back again as they explained how long John would be gone, and that he and Blythe would be staying on the base.

"For now," John added. "Your mother and I are still talking about that."

"Your Dad's going to be all right," Blythe said.

"Of course I will." John winked at him and put his hand on Greg's knee. "So you better behave so I don't have to come home and give you a spanking."

Blythe took one of Greg's hands between her own. "Is there anything you want to say to your Dad?" she asked him, still not seeing either fear or relief on his face. "Is there anything you want to ask him?"

Greg looked into her eyes, and she had the sense again that he saw the world differently than she did, that he understood it in ways that she didn't. He shook his head. "Can we bowl now?"


	14. Chapter 14

Phil shouldn't be here. It should be John sitting with Greg, getting the full story behind the bruised cheek he'd come home with after school. It had been John who'd taken Greg aside after the first fight, and the second. It had been John who'd signed Greg up for a boxing class.

"Boys fight," he'd said, and assured Blythe that she shouldn't worry, and that he had things under control.

But John was in Vietnam, and Greg was in his room with an ice pack for the bruise. He'd gone silent when Blythe asked what happened. He'd insisted that the other boy started it, but refused to meet her eyes when he said it.

"How am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me the truth?" she'd asked, and he'd stared at her, somehow surprised that she'd seen past his lie.

She'd sent him to his room, uncertain what to do next. Maybe John had been right and the fight was just part of growing up, but she couldn't stop the voice in her head that something else was happening – something she needed to stop.

Calling Phil had felt like giving up, but there was no one else Greg might open up to. Her father was too far away, and so was John's. The coaches and teachers didn't seem to understand him. But Greg liked Phil. Phil taught him card tricks and magic tricks. Phil bought him ice cream.

Phil could get answers from him that Greg wouldn't give her.

They were answers a father could get from his son, but Blythe tried not to think about that. She told herself that Phil was the best person to call only because Greg would listen to him, not for anything as simple as biology.

"Boys fight," Phil said when he walked in the door.

"That's not going to help me," Blythe told him. She'd been making pies for the past hour in a weak attempt to distract herself.

"I'm not making any promises," he said, and headed to Greg's room.

Blythe heard the door close as she rolled out pie dough. She listened for their voices as she peeled apples, cut them into thin slices and dropped them into the pan. She checked the time as she added sugar and cinnamon and butter, thinking they should be done by now.

She heard the door open just after she slid the pie into the oven, and looked up to see Phil and Greg standing at the doorway.

Phil nudged Greg and Greg looked up at her. "Sorry," he said. "It won't happen again."

"I can't believe you if I don't know why you got in a fight this time," she said.

"Go on," Phil said.

Greg didn't look Blythe in the eye now, instead looking someplace beyond her to some point on the wall. "Pete said he'd beat me up if I didn't do his math homework." His words tumbled out all at once.

Blythe felt her shoulders drop as she traded one worry for another, picturing the boy down the street – a year older and three inches taller than Greg. "And you didn't." She put a hand on Greg's arm, about to pull him close for a hug.

"Well..." Greg said. He still wouldn't meet her gaze. Instead he looked back at Phil.

Phil nodded at him, but Greg remained silent.

"He said he'd do it for fifty cents," Phil finally said for him.

"What?" Blythe held Greg at arm's length. "Why would you do that?"

Greg shrugged. "Because he only gets fifty cents for allowance," he said.

Blythe turned him to look at her, but Greg focused on something outside the window over her left shoulder.

"So, then he beat you up," she said.

Greg looked back at Phil again. Phil sighed. "No. Greg's been doing Pete's homework for the past two weeks, but Pete refused to pay after class today."

"So --" Blythe remembered the comic books that Greg came home with on Saturday, the ones he said he'd borrowed from a friend, and she suddenly pictured a different scene than she'd ever imagined. This was something she'd never expected. "You started the fight?"

Greg finally looked her in the eye. "He wouldn't pay. I didn't do it for free."

Blythe covered her eyes with hands. "Go to your room," she said. She pulled one of the kitchen chairs out and sank down onto it. She heard Greg's bedroom door close. She wondered what John would have done, then decided she didn't want to know. Pete's father was a major. John was a captain, and John believed in rank.

She knew she'd have to handle this, somehow, before Greg started thinking of school just as a place to earn pocket change. Greg was getting too big to spank, and Blythe didn't have the heart for it. She should ground him for a month. Two months. No TV. No music.

She heard the sound of another chair scraping along the floor, and looked up to see Phil sitting across from her. He had a slight smile on his face, like this was just a joke to him.

"If he were my son -- " he started, then stopped.

Blythe closed her eyes and gritted her teeth to hold back the anger that roiled inside her – anger at Greg's stupid games, at John for not being here, at herself for not knowing what to do, at Phil who didn't seem to take anything seriously. She had to stop herself from saying something she'd regret, from shouting out the whole story, from telling Phil to take responsibility for something for once in his life, from forcing him to share the burden she'd been carrying for years.

"If he were my son," he said again, "I'd tell him to get the payment before he did the other kid's homework next time."

Blythe stared at him. Phil wasn't what Greg needed. He wasn't what she needed.

"You're no help at all," Blythe said. And you never have been, she thought.


	15. Chapter 15

This should be easy, Blythe thought. Everything here should fit together and snap into place, just as it always had before. But it didn't.

She put down one puzzle piece, and picked up another, turned it around and tried to make that one fit. Greg picked up the one she'd put down and tried to slip it into the same spot in the jigsaw puzzle she'd already given up on. It still didn't fit, even when he pounded it with his fist.

"Don't force it, honey," Blythe told him. "If it doesn't fit, then it's not the right piece."

"But it should fit," Greg said. "Look at it."

He held it out before her, and she saw the same thing that had drawn her to it: the right shape, the right shade of purple that matched the lilac bush in the puzzle's picture, even the right size.

"If it doesn't fit, then it's not the right piece, no matter how much you want it to be," she told him. "Try another one."

Greg ignored her and put the piece back down on the table, tried to force it into place again.

"Stop it," John barked from the other end of the table. He took the piece from Greg's hand and tossed it back into the jumble of other pieces.

Greg dropped his hands to his side, his head dropping down slightly.

"John," Blythe said softly, and reached over, touched his arm. She felt tight muscle beneath his skin, the skin itself still tanned from the tropical sun even two weeks after he'd returned home. She kept her hand there for a few moments, until she could feel some of the tension begin to ease.

John had been short tempered since he returned home, though he kept saying he was just trying to adjust. There had been too many strange noises over there, he'd said, and too many people he didn't trust. He kept promising that all he needed was time, but nothing had changed yet. He was trying, though.

"Sorry," John said. He picked up a puzzle piece and held it out to Greg. "Why don't you try this one?" he asked.

Greg just glanced at it, then shook his head. "It's not the right one," he said.

Blythe could see as well as Greg that the purple wasn't quite the right shade. She suspected that John knew that too, but he still held it out like it was a peace offering, but Greg wouldn't take it.

"Here," she said, and pushed some other pieces across the table in Greg's direction. "Why don't you work on the fence?"

Greg looked up at her. He shrugged and took the pieces she offered. John tossed his piece back down onto the table.

The puzzle was supposed to be a chance for them to do something together on a cold and rainy late fall Sunday. No games, no homework, no housework – nothing to distract them. Greg and John needed to learn how to live together again before things got worse.

Blythe was sure that they'd be moving again soon, though she wasn't certain where. After nearly eleven years with John, she'd begun to develop a sixth sense for the moment when the transfer would arrive. She'd find herself sorting through papers and tossing anything she didn't need, and saving boxes from the grocery store that could hold everything they needed to keep.

Moving would mean that their world would narrow down again to just the three of them, and a civil war between John and Greg would only make things harder.

It hadn't been this bad between the two of them before, -- or at least Blythe didn't think it was that bad. But the year away had hardened John in ways she hadn't expected, while Greg had become more independent, the stubborn streak he'd always had forcing itself out at inconvenient times – at school during arguments with teachers, or a home when he didn't want to eat brussels sprouts, or when John wanted him to turn off the TV and Greg wanted to watch cartoons.

She'd seen the jigsaw puzzle when she was cleaning out the closet, and thought it would give them all something they could do together. One thousand pieces, the picture of a beautiful meadow in springtime and time to become a family again.

Instead, John had concentrated on the patch of woods on his side of the puzzle, pushing all the pieces that could match the trees and leaves to one side of the table, and leaving Blythe and Greg to sort out the rest.

She looked across the table at John with his pieces, and Greg with his collection of pieces showing the fence line that ran along the bottom of the picture. They were both ignoring the section where the woods and fence met.

Blythe shook her head and looked back down at the table, at the mixture of blue pieces for the sky, yellow for the daffodils, and the pale green of the grass. She spotted one piece that stood out from the others and picked it up. She held it over the spot filled with lilacs for a moment and started to lower it down, then stopped and handed it to Greg.

"Try this one," she said.

"You found it." He grinned as he put it down, perfectly filling the hole.

John watched him and nodded, then went back to his own pieces again.

Blythe sighed, then scooted her chair around the corner of the table and picked up one of the darker green pieces, that must have come from the shaded ground near the trees that ran alongside the fence.

"Let's see if this one fits," she said, and set it into place.


	16. Chapter 16

Blythe watched Greg come alive in Egypt.

The curiosity he'd always had for everything and anything – the color of the sky, why leaves changed color, how planes flew -- began to take a new shape and focus there. It was no longer just the simple questions every child asked. There in the heat and the sand and the noise, he was able to look at history and touch science, and Greg suddenly knew that the answers to everything he ever wanted to know were out there just waiting for him.

It was the mummies that did it.

They'd been in Egypt for two weeks when it started. Blythe was still trying to get accustomed to the heat, to the noise, to the crowds, to the food in the marketplace that was so different from anything she'd used at home. She had figs spread out over the cutting board, taking small bites from them as she tried to figure out how to use them in her cookie recipes when Greg handed her the page torn from a magazine about a local exhibit.

"They scooped out their brains with a straw," he said. "Why'd they do that?" There was an intense light in his eyes, one that Blythe would see sometimes and that could almost take her breath away: when he was working out a new song, or he'd learned some new word or new card trick.

"I don't know," she said, "but we can find out."

John was attached to the Marine security unit at the embassy. There were just a few American families there, and the American and Egyptian staff mingled more easily than they had in Greece where there was a large Marine presence. One of the other Marine wives pointed her to a small office at the embassy that specialized in cultural relations.

"Boys love mummies," she said. "It's a phase they all go through."

Blythe just smiled and thanked her. Nothing with Greg ever seemed to be a simple phase.

Sitting in the office, surrounded by photos of pyramids and replicas of scepters and a fake sarcophagus, Greg had listened as Nassim began with easy explanations of the ancient Egyptians' religion and customs.

"But how did they know which chemicals to use?" Greg asked, then demanded to know more about how they'd wrapped the mummies, and how they preserved the lungs and kidneys.

Blythe had started to apologize for Greg, telling him that Nassim was busy, but Nassim had laughed, and soon gave Blythe the name of someone at a museum who could show Greg the actual tools they'd used centuries ago.

"He's a smart boy," Nassim had said. "Most boys just want to know about the mummies they see in monster movies."

He told them how he'd grown up seeing excavations near Giza, and how he'd hung around the camps waiting to see every new treasure they found. He told them where to go to see for themselves what was happening, and gave Greg a list of books he could read.

"You're spoiling him," John said when Blythe planned yet another trip to another museum, but he'd never understood why it was that Greg always wanted more information. John had always been happy knowing that the world worked according to its own rules. He never needed to know those rules. Greg had always wanted – no, needed -- to know why things happened, and now he needed more than she could give him, more than she'd ever learned. But if Blythe couldn't answer his questions by herself anymore, she would find the people who could.

At the museums, and at the ancient ruins, and at the pyramids, Greg dug deep into every piece of information he could find. He quizzed the docents, and ran his fingers over ancient hieroglyphs. At one site, a digger held out a piece of pottery to him, and let him hold it in his hand.

At home, teachers had complained that Greg disrupted class with his questions or that he ignored them. They never believed Blythe when she told them that he was bored, that he needed more than they were giving him.

But now, in this place where she knew she would never fit in, she could give Greg just what he needed. She saw the light in his eyes grow bright and deep, and knew it was worth the travel, worth spending time away from the rest of their families, worth the constant moves. Staying in one place was nice, but home couldn't offer him this.

Here, history and science were things he could touch and feel. It was real, and Blythe could see Greg's mind open up to so much more than he'd ever known just from books.

"Enough already," John grunted at him when Greg tried to show him how chemicals reacted to different metals.

John's world was different from the one that Greg was growing into. John didn't like history, didn't care for science beyond the physics of how his plane reacted to an approaching cold front. He rarely left the embassy compound or their apartment if he could avoid it. Egypt was a crazy place, he always said. It was out of control. Greg's new fascination with anything about mummies and tombs and ancient Egyptians was nothing more than a whim to John.

Blythe didn't understand much about the science that laid claim Greg's imagination either. She'd always expected music to be the thing that opened the world to him. He'd always loved music. She understood music.

But this – mummies and chemistry and shards of pottery that told some story of the past – this was Greg's world alone, and one that was apart from them. This was a world where he was finding his own way, making his own discoveries. He was striking out on his own without her, taking the first steps beyond her world.

All Blythe could do was help him take those steps, and watch him come alive.


	17. Chapter 17

John and Greg stopped speaking to each other for nearly a week the first autumn that they spent in Florida. It started when Blythe wasn't there, when she was trapped for hours trying to untangle the bureaucratic red tape that had claimed one of their trunks they'd last seen in Egypt, and that never made it through once they'd arrived in Pensacola.

Not quite two weeks after they'd moved into their new base housing, the trunk was still caught up in a processing web somewhere – on base but it was still not in their hands. It was the box that held Greg's new collection of fossils and test tubes and books he'd gathered from dusty shops all over Cairo. It had the quilt that Blythe's grandmother had made, that had traveled with them from town to town and country to country. It had John's family photos.

Blythe got a call asking her to come and straighten out the paperwork late one afternoon, and she'd headed straight to the freight office, stopping only long enough to leave a note for Greg and John in case it took longer than she'd expected.

It did.

It was nearly eight o'clock by the time she walked in the house, wheeling the trunk behind her on a borrowed dolly. She'd expected to see Greg running down the front steps when he saw her with it, and John insisting on taking the load from her.

Instead, it was silent in the house. The lights weren't on yet, and the dusky twilight from outside was bleeding inside, shadows filling every corner.

John came out from the kitchen when she opened the door, grunted slightly and took a sip from his glass. Blythe could smell the sharp tang of alcohol and hear ice cubes rattling against the side of the glass.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "What happened?"

John didn't answer her at first, just put down the glass and picked up the trunk, carried it inside and let it fall heavily against the floor. He kicked it up against the couch and picked up his glass, swallowed down the rest of the whiskey.

"Where's Greg?" Blythe asked.

She hadn't seen a light on in Greg's room when she pulled into the driveway. It would have been too dark to read in there without one.

John went into the kitchen. She heard the splash of more whiskey going into his glass. "John?" She followed him, turned on the overhead light. "What happened?" she repeated. "Where's Greg?"

John blinked for a moment in the bright light. "I sent him to his room," he finally said. He didn't look at her and stared at his glass instead, rocking it back and forth so the whiskey slid over the ice cubes.

With the light on, Blythe could see the hard set of John's eyes, the clenched jaw, the way he gripped the glass so tightly she was surprised it didn't break. She took a deep breath. "Why?" she asked.

He still didn't look at her, just pushed a piece of paper toward her. Blythe picked it up and scanned the few lines. It was from the science teacher, complaining of what he called "insolence" from Greg and telling them to meet with him the next day before class.

"One week," John said. "He's been here one week and he's already fucked up."

John usually couched his language with softer terms when he was with her, slipping only when he was stressed or angry.

"What did Greg have to say about it?" Blythe asked.

John took another drink. "Didn't ask," he said. He pushed past her into the living room, sat in the overstuffed club chair in the darkest corner of the room. "Doesn't matter," he added.

"Of course it matters." Blythe turned on the light next to John. "Something must have happened."

"The teacher's in charge," John said. "It's his job to teach the class. It's Greg's job to shut up and learn something."

Blythe wanted to tell John that he was wrong, but saw the look on his face that it wouldn't do any good to try and get him to change his mind about anything. Not now. That would wait for a better time.

"So you didn't try to talk to him at all?"

John finally looked at her. "If I thought I could have managed to talk, rather than yell at him, I would have," he said. "I'd still be yelling if I had, but then you'd just be pissed at me for that instead."

Blythe felt her jaw tighten. "Don't take this out on me," she said.

"Who am I supposed to take it out on, me?" John's voice was raised, and Blythe started to think that he was right, that the silent treatment was better than yelling. "This isn't my fault," he said.

She turned away from John and looked out the window. The street lights had come on, and she could hear a whippoorwill's call from somewhere nearby. Ice rattled in John's glass as he took another drink. She took a deep breath. John would calm down. He'd apologize soon, she told herself, if she just gave him some time.

But time wouldn't help Greg. She thought of him there, sitting alone in the dark for hours, his imagination building with each minute.

She turned and headed to the back of the house. "I'm going to talk to Greg," she said. She didn't bother looking back to see John's reaction.


	18. Chapter 18

Greg was sitting on the edge of his bed when she pushed open the door and turned on the light. He looked behind her, and she saw him relax slightly when he realized John wasn't there.

"It wasn't my fault," he said.

Blythe closed the door behind her. "Maybe you can tell me what happened before we decide that."

Greg sighed. "Mr. Leland had us make potato clocks," he said. "Lame."

"You liked the one you made last year," Blythe pointed out.

"It's a stupid experiment."

"But what's wrong with --"

"He told everyone that it worked because the potatoes were acidic, but that's wrong," Greg said.

"And you corrected him?"

Greg looked into her eyes. "He was wrong."

Blythe pictured Greg in class, refusing to back down when he knew he was right. "And how did you tell him he was wrong?"

Greg shrugged, and looked away. "It doesn't matter," he said.

Blythe sat next to him. "I think it does."

"He used to be the gym teacher." Greg stared down at his shoes. "They only made him the science teacher last year when they needed someone. He should go back to gym class."

Blythe turned his face to her. "And that's what you told him?"

"He was wrong."

"I understand, but there are better ways to handle this," she said. "You could have told me. We could have talked to the principal."

Greg shook his head.

Blythe put her hand on his knee. "I know you were right about the science, honey, but you didn't go about it the right way. You're going to have to apologize to him."

Greg groaned.

"And to your father, for upsetting him."

"Why should I apologize to Dad? He won't even listen to me."

"Because he's your father."

"That's a stupid reason." Greg pushed himself away from her, moving back against the wall with his legs stretched across the bed.

"Greg." Blythe looked away from him, felt her skin go warm and her eyes moisten. She wondered what she'd done wrong to let Greg and John drift so far apart. Maybe it was something she hadn't done. Maybe, that familiar voice reminded her, it was genetic. "Please don't do this."

Greg pulled his legs up, bent his knees and wrapped his arms around them. Blythe sat there as the spot beside her grew cool. She wanted to reach out to Greg, to make him feel better. But she couldn't. She shouldn't. Greg was old enough now to start solving his own problems.

She could force him to apologize to the teacher. She could force him to go to school and manage to set aside his differences for an hour a day. But he also had to learn how to live with John, and figure out that a simple apology could smooth his way. Or he'd just have to learn to live with the consequences if he didn't.

Blythe got up, paused for a moment at the door. "Fine," she said, and finally turned back to Greg. "Maybe you should stay here until you're ready to talk to him."

Greg didn't come out of his bedroom that night. John was gone by the time Greg got up for school the next day. Blythe was the one who sat next to Greg during the meeting with the teacher, gently guiding him to say just enough to satisfy the man.

After school, Greg went to his room and stayed there. She knocked on his door when John came home.

"I'm not ready yet," Greg said.

John looked at Greg's empty seat at supper, but didn't say anything, only nodded when Blythe told him how the meeting went.

The next morning, Greg washed his own breakfast dishes, paused for a moment when he saw John's mug in the sink, then washed that too. "Sorry," he said softly to her.

"Thank you," she said. "You can apologize to your father tonight too, after he gets home."

Greg just shook his head, put on his jacket and headed to school.

That night, John was out late. He called and told Blythe that he was called in to a briefing, and didn't know when he'd come home. The next morning, he was out again before sunrise, without even offering an excuse.

"You're going to have to talk to him," Blythe told John when he finally came home for a late dinner. Greg had gone to his room as soon as John's car pulled in the driveway. "He's apologized to his teacher, and he got a perfect score on his pop quiz today." She pushed the paper across the table to John. "He just needs to know that you're not mad at him, and that you'll forgive him."

John pushed the paper away. "What makes you think I will?"

She couldn't move, couldn't say anything as he walked out of the room. She sat there and heard his steps cross the house, heard the front door open, then close behind him. She wanted to yell after his retreating form to come back, that she wasn't done. She wanted to tell him to grow up and be the adult, but it was hard enough just to force herself to keep breathing.

She wiped away tears, though she couldn't remember when she'd started crying, and told herself that it wouldn't have done any good to yell at him. It only would have pushed him further away. John was just as stubborn as Greg when he wanted to be – the two of them pulling at her from opposite ends with the same blind willfulness and certainty that they were right.

Blythe reminded herself that she'd chosen this. She'd set herself on this path from the first day she found out she was pregnant, and decided to keep the truth to herself alone. But days like this, she almost wished she could go back, tell that younger version of herself just how hard and lonely her path would be. She wasn't sure if she would have made the same decisions, if she'd known what was to come.

She pushed down her own anger and fear, and reminded herself of what was important: John loved Greg, and Greg loved John – even if they didn't want to admit that. And she loved them both. It was up to her to hold them together.

Blythe picked up the dishes, put away the leftovers. She concentrated on what needed to be done and let her own emotions – her own anger – cool until they were something she could handle again.

She filled the sink with hot water and soap, wiped down each dish, and rinsed them clean.

Greg's door was still closed when she finished, but she wondered what he'd heard. She walked through the living room and stopped at the front door. John was standing in the middle of the yard, his arms crossed over his chest.

Blythe walked through the door, and stopped beside him. It was quiet, just the sound of children playing somewhere down the block, a car engine revving down the street. Somehow, in the silence or in the work, she'd found the words she needed to pull John back. To help him find the way home even if he'd forgotten how.

"You'll forgive him," she said, "because he stood up for what he believed in, and because you know that's more important than the rules."

John shook his head slightly, and she thought she saw the tension ease slightly in his shoulders. "I know," he finally said, "but every once in a while, it'd be nice if he could figure out how to follow the rules too."

Blythe put her hand on his arm. "It'd be nice," she agreed, "but we can't get everything we want in life, now, can we?"


	19. Chapter 19

Blythe's grandmother grew up hungry and poor. She used to tell stories of days of hunger, of seasons when drought stole the family's crop. But then she'd laugh, and tell a story of how one of her brothers had been caught spiking the salt shaker with sand as a joke, and the look on his face when he'd been forced to eat the grit-filled eggs that had been fried up on the stove top.

Blythe had asked her once how she could laugh, when things were so bad.

"That's the best time to laugh," she'd said. "When things are so bad you can't stand to cry anymore, you've got to find something that makes you happy."

Blythe thought of her words as she watched Greg and John out in the surf.

It was Greg's spring break, and John wouldn't be on duty for another three days. The weather had turned hot and humid, promising a long summer to come, and Blythe had suggested that they pretend they were tourists, just for the day, and give themselves a day at the beach.

No housework, no paperwork, no homework.

"It'll be nice," she'd said.

Blythe made fried chicken and a three-bean salad – the vinegar in the dressing mixing with the smell of the salt air and the sticky feel of her skin. There were cookies in a tin, and she filled a cooler with cherry Kool-Aid and ice and stuffed a bag with towels and swimsuits, and sandals, and a blanket.

The remains of their dinner was still spread out over the blanket, but Blythe ignored the mess. Instead, she sat watching John teach Greg how to body surf through the waves, and gave in to her own giggles when Greg emerged from the water, laughing and shaking his head to get the water out of his eyes.

It had been too long with the two of them barely operating at truce, and still on edge – too long that she'd worried that every report card or parent teacher meeting would drop them back in the middle of their war, and leave her caught in a mine field, uncertain which way she should take to lead them out.

But today was good. Today, everyone was happy. Today, she told herself, was the kind of story she'd tell her own grandchildren someday.

John built a bonfire on the beach just before sunset, and Greg brought him armfuls of driftwood he collected along the shore, then fed each one to the flames as the red embers matched the red of the western sky, then became a beacon in the night and the sun sank beyond them, and darkness closed in around them.

John pointed to the night birds that had come out and circled above them, telling Greg to watch how they rode the wind currents.

"When you're flying, you can feel the change in the wind," John said. "You can feel the pressure change when you climb higher and the air is cold because of the way the air passes over the wings."

"Bernoulli's Principle," Greg said. "The curve of the wing decreases air pressure, creating lift." He turned to John, and Blythe saw the way the flames shone in his eyes. "He came up with that equation almost two hundred years before the Wright Brothers. How did he do that?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad he did." John chuckled. "Otherwise, I might be out of a job."

Greg put another stick on the fire, then sat cross-legged on the blanket between John and Blythe. She could see the curve of his spine as he leaned forward, toward the flames.

It was quiet for a few moments. Just the sound of the crackling embers, the waves on the beach, and the squeals of birds and bats overhead. Blythe closed her eyes, tried to memorize everything: the sound, the feel of the sand beneath her, the smell of the ocean. She wanted to tell the story the right way when the day came. She wanted to make it last. No, she thought, this could be more than just a story, more than just a moment in the past. This could be something new, something to build some new future on – a way to change the story she'd tell.

"Greg, I'll bet your Dad has all kinds of information he could give you about flying and planes, and the weather, and air pressure." She turned to John. "Don't you?"

"I can read about that anywhere," Greg said.

Blythe leaned toward him. "But he can tell you more than the books can," she said. "You can conduct your own research with him all about the way the plane feels when it goes higher and lower."

"Sure can," John said. "It's different when you're out there than it is in the books. There are cold fronts and warm fronts and air pockets and turbulence." John took her hand. Maybe he'd been looking for the same chance that she'd wanted, some way to connect with Greg in a language they could both speak. "Sometimes even a cloud bank can make the plane act differently. I could show you some old charts and some old flight records."

Greg glanced at him, turn turned back to stare at the fire.

"If you want," John added.

Greg was silent a moment longer, then finally he shrugged. "OK."

Blythe felt John squeeze her hand. "Great," he said. "I'll get you some old charts – maybe some from the missions I was flying off Japan before you were born. It'll be fun to take a look at those again."

Blythe kissed John on the cheek, then leaned against him, feeling the heat of his body, the heat from the sand, the heat from the fire. She studied the outline of Greg against the dancing flames, then closed her eyes and listened to the ocean, and the sound of wood crackling in the fire. "That'll be nice," she said.


	20. Chapter 20

It was only later that she saw how it could have happened, saw how one small clue led to another until there was a clear trail that anyone could follow if they were curious enough. And Greg was always curious.

It began that afternoon in the spring when Greg fell off his bicycle.

"I didn't fall," he said, his voice muffled by the towel pressed against the side of his head. "I just didn't make the landing."

"There's a difference?" Blythe eased the pressure off the towel to look beneath it. The cut was still bleeding freely and she saw the jagged line of it slicing back past his hairline.

"Babies fall off their bikes when they're learning to ride," Greg said. His eyes were clear as he looked at her. "I crashed mine coming off the jump."

"The jump?" Blythe put more pressure on the towel.

"Ow." Greg batted at her hand, but she held firm. "The jump over the ditch," he said. Blythe pictured the spot he was talking about, the drainage ditch behind the base's family housing.

"You realize you're talking yourself into getting your bicycle taken away from you for at least a week, right?"

"I made it the first two times," Greg said.

Blythe shook her head and eased the towel away from his head again. The bleeding had slowed, but not enough. She'd swallowed down her fear when he'd walked in with blood dripping down the side of his face and onto his shirt. There wasn't time to do anything but react. She could feel fear now, though, in the way her hand shook, in the tightness in her stomach and her shoulders. She knew she'd have nightmares that night of everything that could have gone wrong. She knew she'd go to his bedroom door just to watch him sleep.

Greg had scared her so many times before. She should be used to it by now.

"You're going to need stitches," she said, and put the towel back against his head. She picked up his hand, placed it against the towel. "Hold it tight," she said, and went to get her purse and car keys.

At the hospital, they needed to cut his hair before they put in the stitches, and Blythe had held his hand as they shaved a few inches along the length of the cut.

When the doctors were finished, then held up a mirror so Greg could see, and they both saw the strawberry colored birthmark that had been hidden there beneath his thick curls since before he could walk.

Greg seemed more interested in tracing the edges of the cut than the birthmark, though his fingers had paused just briefly over it.

During the week he was grounded -- "Should have made it two," John muttered before he went out to dismantle the plywood ramp the boys had set up in front of the ditch – Greg finally opened John's log books from Japan, spreading them out on the kitchen table.

John gave him a list of all the abbreviations in the log, the shorthand code for air speed, for velocity, for fuel consumption, for wind direction.

Greg copied bits of information into a spiral bound notebook, and scribbled out math problems until he covered the page with numbers to figure out how much more fuel the planes used in head winds than in cross winds or tail winds.

Blythe was making supper the day he stopped suddenly, sat up straight and stared at the wall as if he could see something there besides plaster and dull white paint and the calendar hanging from a nail. After a minute or two, he turned to her. She thought she saw something new in his eyes, some intensity that she'd never noticed before. She felt like he was seeing her under a microscope, and finding something there he'd never noticed before.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Greg shook his head slightly, then picked up the log book and went into the living room. He took it to John and held it open to one page.

"Are these the right dates?" he asked.

"Of course," John said. "Why wouldn't they be?"

Blythe saw his shoulders move in something like a shrug, then he turned back to her again.

His eyes seemed bright, vivid, like there was some new fire that had sparked to life inside him, and Blythe felt herself grow uncomfortable to be the focus of that fire. She turned her back on him and instead opened the oven and took out the pork roast. "You need to clear off the table," she said. "It's almost time for supper."

She saw the look in his eyes again the next morning, and the morning after that. For the next few weeks, she'd catch him staring at her, as if he was trying to memorize everything about her – the color of her hair, the shape of her eyes, the length of hands. Even her feet. She caught him making the intense studies of John, when he had a chance, and when John wasn't paying attention.

Every time she asked Greg what he wanted, he'd just shrug, or ignore her and walk away. But she'd catch him a few hours later, watching her again.

When Phil showed up to surprise them a few days before Greg's birthday – "Just visiting," he said when she answered the door. "I had to fly some brass out for a meeting." -- it should have been a relief. He should have been a welcome distraction.

Greg would have something new to think about, Blythe thought. Maybe he'd forget whatever it was that he seemed to be so obsessed with now.

But as Phil stepped through the door and took off his hat, Blythe noticed how his hair had thinned out during the past two years, and how his hairline had eased back just slightly from his forehead.

And how brightly the strawberry colored birthmark stood out against Phil's pale skin.


	21. Chapter 21

It finally happened on a warm June Saturday. Blythe hadn't seen the signs. Or maybe she'd ignored them: Greg's silence, the way he'd stared at Phil, the way he'd flinched when John spoke to him, and called him "son."

She hadn't been ready, and when it happened, it hit at full force like a wave slamming against the breakwall, or a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky.

Her first warning came as she drove home from the store and saw a neighbor out on her porch looking toward their home, a worried look on her face that didn't let up when she saw Blythe driving down the street and into the driveway.

She turned off the engine and then she heard it. The shouts. The yells. The anger. John's voice and Greg's voice all tangled together. John's was louder. Demanding. Strident. It was all emotion. Even as she got out of the car and rushed to the door she couldn't make out the details. Only the anger. The rage.

"Son of a bitch!" she finally made out as she neared the door. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Greg's voice came back in an answer that was strong and certain, even if it wasn't as loud or as angry as John's. "I'm right," he said. "You know I'm right."

Blythe pushed open the door and saw the two of them standing in the middle of the living room, John using every inch of his height to loom over Greg, but Greg standing straight, not backing down, not giving in.

John's shoulders hitched slightly, his arm drew back.

"John!" she shouted.

He froze, but his right arm still there, held stiffly a few inches away from his body, his fingers curling into what looked like it was becoming a fist.

Blythe crossed the room in two quick steps, placed herself between them. "John," she said softer this time, and reached out toward him, taking his hand in hers. She felt muscle and tendons and bone beneath his skin, all drawn tight and hard. He seemed to fight her touch for a moment, then allowed her to ease his hand down.

"I'm right," Greg repeated.

Blythe felt the tightness muscle its way again to the surface in John's hand, and she turned to Greg. "Quiet," she said. She reached out for him with her other hand but he flinched away, took a step back from both her and John.

She looked from Greg to John and back. John was breathing hard, Greg staring into his face even though he'd finally put some distance between them. She knew he could see the same anger she did, but he didn't seem to care.

Blythe had seen them fight, had heard them yell, had played the referee more times than she could count. She'd never seen them like this.

"What's going on?" she asked.

John kept his gaze locked on Greg. "Ask him," he said. "He seems to know everything."

Blythe kept her eyes on John for a moment longer, seeing the hard set of his shoulders and the way the muscles in his jaw worked beneath the thin layer of skin. She took a tighter grip on his hand, but he didn't look at her.

She turned to Greg. He'd drawn back at John's words, tried to ease away from John – or from her.

"Tell me," she said.

Greg didn't look at her, stared at the floor instead. She reached out, grabbed his arm and turned him toward her before he could slip away. Wouldn't let him go. "Tell me," she repeated.

He finally shifted his gaze from the linoleum to her face. She could see an intensity in his eyes, a certainty that he was right, just as he'd said. She'd seen that look before – that power that seemed like a fire deep inside him. But then she saw something new. Some flash of an emotion she hadn't seen from him before. For a moment, she thought it looked like pity.

"Greg?" she asked, but he looked away again, wouldn't look at her even when she pulled him closer.

"You're so sure you're right, go ahead and say it," John said. His voice was low now. Not a shout. Not a yell. But Blythe sensed the fury beneath the quiet rumbling. "Say it to her." He nodded at Blythe.

Blythe turned back to Greg. He stood there silently for a few seconds, then shook his head and pulled his arm out of her grip.

"You're a liar, and a coward." John leaned forward and his voice got even quieter. "Maybe you think your life would be better if you weren't my son. Too bad for you that you're wrong."

Blythe felt her breath catch in her throat, and tightened her grip on John's hand – not to calm him down this time, but because the world was spinning out from beneath her. The room tilted to one side and she closed her eyes, reached out again to where Greg was, looking for another anchor, but felt nothing.

She heard footsteps and forced herself to breathe. Once. Twice. She held her breath again and recognized the sound of Greg's sneakers running down the hallway. She took another breath and finally opened her eyes when she heard his bedroom door slam shut.

She focused on the place where Greg had been until the room came back into focus. She turned to John, but he still wouldn't look at her, just pulled his hand away from hers and walked away. He slammed the front door on his way out, and left her standing all alone.


	22. Chapter 22

She heard the ticking of the clock, the second hand beating out the time, though she couldn't quite remember what time it was, or what day it was.

She heard water dripping from the kitchen faucet.

She heard the sound of her own heart beating in her chest, fast and hard.

She couldn't hear John, and didn't know if he was just outside the door, or if he'd gone away. Gone to cool off down at the officers' club, or if he was gone forever.

She couldn't hear Greg in his bedroom. Couldn't hear the sound of his feet hitting the floor as he paced in some intricate rhythm that only he seemed to know, the one that he'd settle into whenever he was bored, or doing homework.

She should go to him, Blythe thought. He'd need her. He'd need to know that she loved him. He'd need to know that John loved him, no matter what.

But what was she supposed to say? What could she say?

Greg had seen through her, seen that hidden part of her that no one else had -- seen past the lies and the stories.

He must hate her, she thought, and felt her knees give out. She slid down to the floor, her skirt wrinkled beneath her knees, her hand pushing hard against the floorboards to keep herself from collapsing even further.

The floor was cold. She was cold. Cold deep inside. Cold like she'd never be warm again. Cold like her heart could freeze in her chest, but somehow it kept beating.

He knew. Greg knew.

And he'd told John.

John.

He knew all her lies now. He knew that she wasn't the woman he'd thought she was, wasn't the woman she'd tried to be.

She wondered if he'd walk out on her now without a word, or if he'd give her another chance.

She shook her head. She'd already had a second chance, she thought. She could have told him the truth, but each time she'd lied to him. Lied to everyone. Nothing but lies. And for what?

"For them."

Blythe wasn't sure if she'd actually said the words, wasn't sure where they came from, but recognized the feeling from somewhere deep inside her, the one place the cold hadn't seemed to have touched. She tried to ignore the cold and focus on that one thought, like the dying ember of a fire.

"For them," she whispered.

She'd lied to hold her family together, had lied to protect them, she reminded herself. She'd lied to give Greg a home and a world that could take him everywhere.

She'd lied to give John someplace to call home, someplace to hold in his heart no matter how terrible the world might seem.

She sat up straight, felt the warmth seeping back into her hands.

She'd lied because it seemed like the best thing for all of them. Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe she shouldn't have lied. But the lies had been there, and she'd told each one to protect them.

And now, for them, she'd face the truth. For them she'd find some way to make it right again. Find some way to make it up to John. Find some way to make Greg believe in her again. Find some way to rebuild their world.

She pushed herself onto her feet and stood there with one hand against the wall until she felt steady.

She looked down the hall to Greg's room, then over to the front door where she'd last seen John. At least she knew where Greg was. She could talk to him once she knew if John had left.

Blythe opened the door, and squinted against the late afternoon sunlight.

The car was still in the driveway, and John was sitting in the driver's seat, staring straight ahead at the closed garage door. His hands were on the wheel, fingers gripping the hard plastic until his knuckles turned white. The engine wasn't running.

Blythe hesitated for a moment, then waked around the car and slid into the passenger seat. She didn't look at John.

For them, she told herself. She could do this for them. She took a deep breath.

"I wasn't going to hit him." John's words cut through the quiet before she could say a word.

Blythe turned to look at him, his words taking long seconds to filter through her thoughts. She shook her head, and wondered if she'd misheard him. "What?"

"I wouldn't hit him, no matter how much he deserves it," John repeated. "I'm not -- " he shook his head and didn't finish the sentence.

Blythe blinked her eyes, tried to bring back the memory of what had happened before John had walked out the door, fought past her thoughts of her own lies and betrayal. John's hand had been raised, she remembered.

"I wasn't going to hit him."

She wondered if John was just repeating the words to himself, if he even realized that she was there. It was as if he'd been through a different fight, as if he'd never heard Greg's words.

But then she remembered: She hadn't heard them either. Maybe Greg really hadn't figured out anything. Maybe John's anger and words had nothing to do with her. Maybe her secret was still safe. Maybe her lies hadn't hurt anyone.

Yet.

Or, more likely, she was still fooling herself now. She should confess everything. Come clean. Do it now, while she could. She could still make everything right, and make a fresh start for all of them.

"I wasn't going to hit him," John said again.

Or maybe she should wait, just until John was calm, until they had all had time to cool down.

Blythe nodded slightly. Later would be better. It would be better for her. And it would be better for them. She reached over, and put her hand on John's arm.

"I know," she said.


	23. Chapter 23

Greg would never tell her what he'd said, or what he'd told John that day.

_"That's because you never asked." _The voice deep inside Blythe pointed out.

Blythe turned up the radio and tried to ignore the voice. It was getting harder. Call it her conscience, call it a voice of reason, call it her better nature, but it was always there now. It seemed to taunt her, to point out everything she did wrong, from not putting enough vanilla extract in the butter cream frosting to avoiding John's eyes at the breakfast table.

She'd heard it before, back when she'd first met Phil, but it had seemed to go silent after Greg was born, and she saw how happy John was.

This time it wouldn't shut up.

"I asked," Blythe whispered.

_"No you didn't," the voice said. "Not really. You could have made him tell you, if you tried."_

She sat at the edge of Greg's bed that first night, and waited for him to speak first, to ask ask the question that would expose everything. Greg was always asking questions. This time, he didn't. He shook his head when she finally asked him if he'd tell her what was wrong.

The next morning, she took him his breakfast – "Confined to quarters, until further notice," John had typed out on a blank sheet of paper before he headed out – and she almost stammered out something about what had happened, back then, but she didn't. She told herself that she didn't want to give Greg any clues if she was wrong. Maybe he didn't know anything.

"_Of course he knows. You're only making things worse."_

Greg watched her closely as she put the plate down on his dresser: pancakes already coated with maple syrup alongside two slices of bacon. She placed a glass of milk next to them.

She turned to him, finally. "Is there anything you need?"

He only stared at her, his eyes catching hers for a split second before he turned away.

She paused at his door, her hand on the knob, hoped that he'd say something if she waited long enough, but he didn't.

John wouldn't let him come out of his room except to use the bathroom for the first week, then told him he couldn't leave the house for another two weeks.

"House arrest," he typed out.

"This is ridiculous," Blythe told him as he folded the paper in half, creasing the line of it between his thumbnail and the thick skin of his index finger. "Talk to him."

"I'm not in the mood to listen to any more of his lies," John said.

_"You should tell him too,"_ the voice said. _"Greg wasn't lying. You're the only one who lies."_

Blythe didn't say anything, just watched as John slid the note under Greg's door.

_"Coward."_

Yes, she thought. She was. She was afraid of losing everything she'd had, everything they'd all had.

_"If everything you've had can't survive the truth, maybe it's not worth holding onto."_

Blythe wiped away a tear. Maybe, she thought, that was true. Maybe that's why she couldn't risk exposing it – exposing herself. The truth would tear down everything, like waves beating against a rocky shore, one after another until the rocks themselves wore down to sand. If solid rock wouldn't last, what hope did they have?

"_You'll never know, will you?"_

She tried to tell John once.

"I'm sorry," she whispered on a hot summer night when she couldn't fall asleep.

"For what?" he asked.

"For -- " she tried to think of the right words, tried to arrange them into something he could understand, but the words jumbled together, froze up in her mind unspoken. He drifted off to sleep before she found the right answer.

The summer passed in near silence, the TV banned in one of John's written punishments. Blythe turned on the radio some days, just to try and drown out the voice in her head, but then she'd hear some song filled with empty promises of everlasting love and she switched it off again.

After the first month, Greg filled his days cleaning out the garage, or washing the car, or polishing John's shoes – whatever chore the note told him to do each morning. Blythe took him shopping with her one day to the NEX, hoping to see him smile again, but his silence only seemed to burrow deep into her soul.

_"He needs you to make this right."_

Blythe agreed with the voice, but could never figure out how to do it. She promised herself that she'd try. She asked John again and again to speak to Greg, to end the punishment.

"It's been long enough," she told him on an August night with the sound of cicadas echoing through the bedroom. "He doesn't deserve this. Nobody does."

"You don't know what he said."

Blythe paused, saw her opening. "So tell me."

It was the first time the voice in her head was silent in weeks.

The white of his eyes were bright in the darkness. He placed his hand against her cheek. He sighed. "No," he said. "It was a lie."

"What if it wasn't?"

John looked at her for a moment longer. She couldn't read the thoughts in his head, couldn't make out his expression. Finally he shook his head. "It was," he said, then rolled over and turned his back to her.

Blythe stared at the outline of his body under the sheets, watched as his breaths deepened into sleep.

"_Coward," _the voice said.

She nodded, and turned away from John. "Yes," she whispered. "I am."


	24. Chapter 24

Blythe could feel Greg pulling away. He would be there, with her – with them – sitting at the table eating breakfast, or sprawled on the couch with homework, but when she spoke to him, he'd only shrug, or give a half-mumbled answer in reply. He'd spend hours in his room with books or music, or escape to the playground or the gym.

When he finally came home, she'd look forward to hearing his voice, to hear him make some joke or interrupt her with some story just as he always had. Instead, he'd be silent, or ignore her. Even when he did tell her something, she could sense that he wasn't telling her everything, as if he was holding back the punch line that would make everything clear.

Blythe could still tell when things were bad, when something bothered him. She could see it in his eyes, or the way his shoulders slumped. She could see it in the way he dragged his feet and the way his hands fumbled for something to keep them busy, something to occupy his mind other than his own thoughts.

If she asked, he'd admit the truth, his eyes widening in surprise that she saw through him. But it bothered her that he wouldn't tell her these things freely anymore. That he no longer confided in her.

John told her she was imagining things. "He's fine," he said. "Hell, I couldn't get him to shut up about some experiment he wanted to do."

John had finally started talking to Greg again a few weeks before school started. Blythe suspected those first words had been an accident. John had been watching a baseball game on TV, and cheered for some play. Greg had looked up from his book at the sound, and John called him over to watch the replay. Greg had hesitated for a moment, but then walked across the room to join him as John pointed out the action.

Blythe wanted to believe that Greg had gone to John's side because he wanted to talk to him, to be with him again, but she knew it was probably only because he thought it meant that the TV ban was finally over.

She'd hoped that they'd somehow find their way back to something like normal now that Greg and John were talking again, but days and weeks went by, and it normal never returned.

Instead, with each day, Greg seemed to put more distance between them, as if he could hide his emotions, even from her. As if he wanted to build some wall inside himself. To set himself apart from them. Apart from her.

Blythe tried to tell herself that he was just growing up, that it was just a phase, but part of her wondered if Greg thought she'd betray him somehow, if he let her see too much of himself.

But sometimes, he'd let the wall drop. He'd lift the curtain, just for a few moments, to laugh with her, or to tell her a joke. He let her into his world when he won a prize at the science fair, and she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.

Those moments never lasted for long, though, and Blythe was beginning to fear they'd disappear forever, if she let them. She wouldn't let them.

She'd made too many mistakes in her life. Letting Greg slip away wouldn't be one of them.

Blythe made his favorite foods. She saved up money to get him a used microscope, and dutifully studied every slide he told her contained something interesting, or cool, or "gross." She hugged him every morning, and praised him every night.

She thought sometimes that she saw something familiar in him. She'd catch an ease in the way he'd tell her a story that felt like the way he used to be. But that never happened when John was home.

And when John's newest orders came in – Vietnam again – Blythe was shocked to realize that her first thought wasn't about John's safety. It wasn't about how much worse things had gotten over there since his first tour. It wasn't about the distance.

Her first thought was that this could be the chance she needed to finally bring Greg back to her.

Without John, she thought, she and Greg could finally find common ground again, and build something new on it that would withstand anything.

Without John, she thought, Greg could be happy.

Without John, things would be different.

In the weeks before John shipped out, she felt the familiar fear for him. She cried when no one else could see her. She tucked a note deep in his bag when she packed it for him, telling him how much she loved him, and how proud she was. But at the same time, she made plans for her and for Greg. Plans for how she could bring them together again.

Her sister Sarah found a place for them in Lexington, less than a mile from her house. It was a small yellow bungalow with two bedrooms and a rose bush in the front yard. Their neighborhood was surrounded by miles of rolling green countryside and horse farms, rather than fences and armed sentries.

There was the university with public lectures on physics and astronomy that she didn't really understand, but Greg loved. There were diners with hearty meals of sausages and biscuits and grits.

There were cousins, and aunts and uncles and a whole family for Greg that he barely knew.

This was a different world for him, and Blythe watched him, day by day in this new world, waiting to see him come alive, waiting for things to change.

But nothing changed.

"I don't know what to do," Blythe finally admitted to Sarah after a family picnic when Greg had managed to make eight-year-old Jessica cry, then sulked after Blythe told him to apologize. "Things used to be so different."

Sarah shook her head. "He's a teenager now," she said. "Get used to it."

"You don't understand," Blythe said, but didn't bother explaining. There was too much to say – too much she couldn't say: about Phil, about John, about herself, about Greg. And Sarah had never really known Greg, had never spent more than a few days at a time with him, had never seen the way his mind worked, had never heard him pick out a piece of music until it was perfect, had never laughed at his jokes.

Sarah would never understand how much things had changed, because she never saw the way he was before. Nobody else ever saw Greg the way she did.

Blythe knew what he was before, and knew what he could still be, and she was certain she could make things right again. She just had to figure out how.


	25. Chapter 25

Blythe was only gone for one weekend, but something changed. Something was always changing, and she didn't know how to make it stop, couldn't make it go back to the way things had been.

Everything was always changing now, and there was nothing she could do but watch.

John had changed.

When he'd come back to them, she'd been shocked to see him. His hair had gone gray in the months they'd been apart. He'd had a little gray mixed in with the brown before he left – a sprinkling of it in his short Marine buzz cut. Now the gray outnumbered the brown, aging him in a glance.

And there were deep lines cut across his forehead, wrinkles that seemed to give him a permanent scowl, so different from the fine lines around his eyes from too many hours spent squinting into the sun.

He'd gone quieter and darker sometime when he was over there too. She'd seen it the first time he'd done a tour in Vietnam, the way he took everything too seriously, the way he found it hard to trust anything, the way he'd wake in the middle of the night and just sit in the dark staring out the windows.

It hadn't lasted then. Now it was always there, and even more intense, his hard edges becoming brittle. He'd sit alone with a glass of whiskey as day turned to night, his eyes dark, and mouth set in a hard line.

Once they were settled into their base housing at Beaufort, he didn't want to step beyond the fence line. He gripped the steering wheel tightly the few times he drove past the guard shack into the civilian world.

John yelled at Greg for making too much noise, then yelled that he was too quiet and shouldn't sneak up on him.

Greg had changed too. Blythe hadn't realized how much he'd grown until she had him stand back-to-back with John, and saw he was only a half a head shorter than John now. His voice had changed, and the baby fat in his face had left him, exposing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw.

Blythe would catch John staring at him sometimes, as if he wasn't sure if Greg had been replaced, or as if he was trying to memorize the man that Greg was growing into.

When Sarah invited Blythe to stay with her for a cousin's wedding, Blythe almost turned her down. John hadn't been home for long, she'd said. They needed more time together.

John was the one who convinced her to go, told her that he could use the time alone with Greg.

"Before long, he won't want to spend any time with the old man," he'd said, and Blythe had given in.

When she got home, no one came out to greet her. She let herself in the back door. All the lights were off except for one bulb burning above the sink. She walked through into the living room and saw John silhouetted against the moonlight shining through the window.

"Have a good time?" John asked. She heard ice tinkling against a glass as he turned toward her and turned on the light.

"It was nice," Blythe said. "Jessica caught the bouquet."

Something felt different, though she couldn't say what it was. The living room was tidy, all the magazines stacked in place on the end table, the rug positioned in straight line between the walls. Someone had organized the books in the shelves until they were all in perfect alignment with the front edge of the shelf.

"Where's Greg?" Blythe put her overnight bag on the sofa. John stood up and kissed her, then picked it up.

"I told him to clean his room."

Blythe took off her jacket, and hung it in the closet. "I didn't think it was that messy before I left," she said. There were usually a few books open on his desk, jeans stuffed in drawers and a shirt or two that had fallen off of its hangar. She tried not to nag, to let him have the room as his one private place, and as long as he made the attempt to keep it clean, she usually let it slide.

"It wasn't regulation," John said.

"We're not due for an inspection," Blythe pointed out. She followed John down the hall. He placed her bag on the bed.

"You never know when we'll get a spot inspection," John pointed out.

Inspections were part of life on a base. The first one had taken Blythe by surprise, the white gloves that scanned for dust on windowsills, in corners and above door frames. She'd learned the rules since then – knew what needed to be done, and what they'd overlook.

John watched her unpack, then headed back to the living room. Blythe paused at Greg's door, and knocked softly.

"I missed you," she said when he opened the door.

He gave a half-hearted shrug in response to her hug.

Blythe looked beyond him. The books were all closed and put away on the desk, except for one open on his bed. The bed was made with the blankets tucked in tight. His shoes were placed carefully under the bed, rather than tossed in a corner. "It looks nice." She smiled at him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Did you two have a good weekend?"

Greg looked up at that, a quick flick of his eyes, some dark response that he couldn't – or wouldn't say out loud.

"Sure," he mumbled. "Fine."

Blythe sat next to him, but he scooted back until he was against the wall. All she could reach was his leg and and his right foot. She placed her hand on his shin, feeling the hard edge of bone through denim.

More changes. More secrets. She knew she could make him tell his secrets, but if she pushed too hard, he'd only pull further away the next time.

"Greg?"

"It was fine," he repeated. He bent his knees, pulling his legs in toward his body, and Blythe's hand slipped onto the mattress.

Greg leaned against the wall and sat there silently for a few moments, then finally looked at her. "I'm glad you're home," he said.

Blythe put her hand back in her lap, and forced a smile onto her face. "So am I."


	26. Chapter 26

At first, Blythe thought he felt guilty.

"No one blames you, you know," she told Greg as they sat side-by-side in the hospital hallway, waiting for the nurse to tell them they could go in and see Mike. "Everyone knows it was an accident."

"I know that," Greg said.

Blythe didn't know Mike or his family until Greg called her from the hospital a few days ago – hours after he should have been home from school -- telling her in rushed sentences about how Mike had fallen from the cliffs. Greg barely knew him. He admitted later that he'd only tagged along because Mike had a scooter, and could get them outside the base's fence line into the city and countryside beyond.

Greg was always looking for escape, and Japan gave him something new to explore. It was a new world, with houses crammed into tiny alleys, bright neon lights and food that Blythe had never tasted before. It was also a world that John didn't understand. Blythe guessed that was half the attraction for Greg.

Blythe had calmly assured Greg he wasn't in trouble when she picked him up. He barely said anything that night, and barely ate anything. She wondered if he'd been scared out there by the rocks, with no one else to help him, but he'd said that he was fine.

The next day he came home right after school, and asked her to take him back.

"Are you sure?" she asked, and he quickly nodded.

Children weren't allowed on the floors without an adult, and Blythe walked alongside him, sat with him while they waited, and talked to Mike's parents. She did her best to comfort them when they told her he had a fever that wouldn't go away, and tried not to imagine Greg in his place.

Greg barely said anything to Mike when he was finally allowed in the room for ten minutes. He told him what he'd missed in school, and that a girl that had asked about him. Then he just stood next to the bed, staring at the monitors and tubes until his visiting time was up.

The next day, he asked to go back again. Blythe took a long look at him. Greg was as tall as she was now, and she could look in his eyes without bending down, and without forcing him to look up. He looked anxious, even excited, at the thought of going.

He still seemed excited as they sat there, waiting. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, watching through the open curtain into the room, and swiveling his head to the left and to the right every time someone came within eyesight.

There was someone new in Mike's room when they finally were allowed inside. Another doctor, she guessed, though this one had a shaggier haircut than the other doctors. He wore inexpensive sandals, rather than the polished leather shoes she'd seen on the other men, and his stained lab coat didn't fit him very well.

She didn't understand what he said, but she saw that everyone else nodded at his words. She looked over at Greg, and saw the way his eyes widened as he looked at the doctor. It was if he wanted to take in everything about him, wanted to memorize him.

It wasn't Mike that he wanted to see, Blythe realized. It wasn't about guilt because of his fall. It was this place. And this man.

Blythe leaned over and whispered into Greg's ear. "Who is he?" she asked.

"The janitor." There was no smile on Greg's face. It wasn't a joke – or at least it wasn't one that he was in on.

As the man shuffled out of the room, both Blythe and Greg watched him go.

The next day, Mike was doing better. His parents were smiling, and told Blythe about how they'd found the right medicine to treat his infection. Mike would be going home in another day or two.

The janitor wasn't there.

Greg nudged her elbow. "Let's go," he said.

Greg didn't say much that night or the next day, but she found her home medical handbook in his bedroom. Two days later, he came home with three books from the base library stuffed in his backpack. Blythe opened one, and saw drawings of nerve systems and blood vessels, muscle groups and the small bones of the hand.

More books followed; one after the other. He spent a Saturday inside the library and came home with a notebook filled with crude sketches labeled in his own handwriting.

"They won't let me check out 'Gray's Anatomy,'" he said.

Blythe was reminded of Egypt, and seeing how Greg took in everything he could find about mummies. She was reminded of Athens, and the way he memorized the ancient legends as if he was the first boy to ever hear them. She was reminded of watching him as he listened to a new piece of music, then worked out each note on the piano.

And she was reminded of John, of the way he'd stare at a new plane, calculating its lift and speed by the shape of the wing. She was reminded of the way he'd study the weather, and watch the clouds, and of the way that he could shut everything else out and focus on whatever was important, pushing through until the job was done.

Greg got that from John – that focus, that single minded stubbornness that wouldn't allow for any compromise, the moments when he shut everything else out. Including her.

But that didn't matter now, Blythe told herself. She sat at the table across from Greg and watched him read, watched the way his fingers traced the line of a diagram, watched the way he smiled when he learned something new, and felt herself smile along with him.

This, she thought, was what mattered.


	27. Chapter 27

Blythe couldn't always keep her eyes on the ball. She'd see it sometimes, a sphere of hard rubber passed from lacrosse stick to another. She watched the players instead, figuring out the game by seeing who they were watching, by watching them run and spin across the grass.

Greg was usually in the thick of it. He'd learned the game quickly, finding the best way to make the ball soar with a flick of his wrist, the ball finding its target again and again.

John didn't make it to many games – too many meetings at Quantico, he complained -- but Blythe was there, sitting on the bleachers with the other parents.

Greg had signed up a few weeks after they landed in Virginia when he saw them practice. She'd seen the way he watched them, saw how he seemed to understand the fundamentals of this new game at a glance.

"It's applied physics," he said later. "It's force and mass and velocity."

"Nobody plays lacrosse," John said.

"Nobody you know," Greg muttered, just loud enough for Blythe to hear. She gave him a stern look, but couldn't stop herself from smiling when he winked at her. Greg held out the permission slip for them to sign. "It'll look good on my college applications."

"What's wrong with football or basketball?" John asked. "Or wrestling?"

Greg sighed. "They need guys for lacrosse."

Lacrosse suited Greg. He was fast, and wasn't afraid of the smashing into other players. Sometimes Blythe thought he looked for collisions on the field, putting himself in the other team's path, running straight at someone as if was daring them to hold their ground. She'd find herself holding her breath in every game, seeing him run into someone, fall and get back up.

He practiced flinging a ball in the back yard for hours, changing his grip on the stick, learning how to shoot while on the run, or scoop it up from the ground, flipping it high in the air again and again until he could make it go just where he wanted.

He had the ball now, and was running down the field, his eyes on the goal. A defender was closing in on him from the right and she forced herself to keep watching, her hands clasped in front of her body, muscles tight as if she could push the other boy out from Greg's path.

Greg spun at the last moment, sliding away from the other boy with two steps to the left. The other parents were cheering him on, and Blythe looked away from the field for a moment, saw a group of girls gathered at the far end of the bench, watching the boys.

When she looked up again, Greg was within striking distance of the goal, breaking free from the defenders and even his own teammates. She saw him lift the stick high, fake a toss to the left, then to the right, before he finally let it fly. The ball sailed through the air, and the goaltender's timing was a half-second too slow.

Blythe stood and clapped. She heard one of the other player's fathers call Greg's name. The girls at the end of the bench applauded and one of them whispered something to the others.

Blythe wished John could be here to see this, to see Greg win. To see the other boys clap him on the back and hear the coach tell him, "Good job." He'd missed seeing so much when he was deployed, or when he busy, or when he just wasn't watching.

"Greg's growing up so fast," she'd told him one night. "He'll be gone before you know it."

"What I'm doing is important," John said.

"I know." It was always important. She hadn't said anything else, but she'd seen John a few days later, watching Greg as he did his homework at the table.

Blythe didn't like to think about what would happen in just a few years, how empty the house would be without him. She ached all over again for the other children that they'd never had, the brothers who would have looked up to Greg, the sisters who would have asked him to fix their toys. Once she thought she'd finally come to peace with the fact that Greg would be their only child, but thinking of the emptiness he'd leave behind brought it all back. It made her want to hold onto him for as long as she could.

Hanging on wouldn't be good for Greg, though.

Blythe reminded herself that she wanted to see him grow up, and fall in love. She wanted to see him become the man he could be, not just the boy he was.

The game ended with a 2-0 score, and Greg walked across the field to her, his lacrosse stick hanging loosely from his fingers, a fresh bruise already starting to form on his shin.

He plopped down next to her and she handed him his sweatshirt.

"Nice game," she said.

He wiped the sweat off his face with the shirt before he pulled it on. "We should have scored on that first possession," he said.

"You still won."

He shrugged. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, the lacrosse stick across his lap. He was looking at the girls.

"The dark haired one is pretty," she said softly. "You should ask her out."

"She dating a neanderthal," he said.

Blythe leaned down toward him. "The blonde is pretty too."

He cocked his head sideways toward her and sighed. "Can we go now?"

A group of boys were gathered in front of the bleachers. The girls gathered their books and jackets and joined them. Blythe nodded toward them. "I can wait, if you want to be with your friends."

Greg was silent as he watched them. He stood up, took the two steps down to the ground. He needed friends, Blythe thought. He'd need someone else in his life once he was on his own, someone he could talk to, someone who cared about him. She wouldn't always be there.


	28. Chapter 28

John didn't tell her about Phil. Blythe found out Phil was stationed at Quanitco when she saw him at the park after one of Greg's games. He was pushing a toddler on the swings, a boy with blond curly hair and dimples.

Blythe hesitated, but he spotted her and waved her over. Greg kept his distance, standing at the far edge of the playground for a few moments, then told Blythe he was going to wait in the car.

"Sorry about Greg," she said. "He's --" Phil shook his head.

"Don't worry about it."

Blythe smiled. "It's good to see you."

He pushed the swing again, the boy giggling as it picked up momentum. "We got here two months ago," Phil said.

Blythe looked down at the boy in the swing. "We?"

"Sandy and I," Phil said, then nodded at the boy, "and Billy."

"Hello, Billy." Blythe bent down to his level. He had brown eyes.

"I met Sandy in San Diego," Phil said. "She was working on the base."

Blythe stood up and smiled. "That's nice," she said. "I'm glad you found someone." She meant it. Phil deserved to be happy, and she hoped that Jenny had found someone to make her happy too.

"Sandy's father is a career man. She comes from a Marine family," Phil said. "She knows what to expect."

Blythe fought back the defense she wanted to make on Jenny's behalf. Jenny had thought she knew what to expect too, but no one knows what it's like to be on your own with a small child until it happens. "I'd love to meet her," she said instead. "You'll have to come over for supper sometime."

"Push, Daddy," Billy said, and Phil laughed.

"Yes, sir." He gave Billy a sharp salute and stepped behind the swing again and gave it a gentle push.

Blythe heard a car horn from the parking lot. "I should go before Greg decides to leave without me."

"Greg's driving?"

"Learner's permit." Blythe shook her head. "I think he's afraid to drive with John, so he always begs me to let him drive when we're together."

"I don't blame him. I don't think I could take John's back seat driving either."

Blythe laughed. This was why she liked Phil, the reason why she actually was glad to see him, despite everything. Phil could tease John in a way that no one else could, and make John even laugh at himself. It'd be good for John to have him around a little more.

"I'll let John know you're here, and we can set something up."

"He already knows," Phil said. "I'll give him a call and let him know when we're free."

That didn't make sense, Blythe thought as she walked to the car. Why didn't John tell her? Was he trying to keep this a secret?

Greg was already sitting behind the steering wheel when she got to the car. Blythe handed him her keys, and settled into the passenger seat. Greg studied the rear view mirror then slung his right arm over the back, turning halfway around to look out the rear window and eased the car into reverse.

"Did you know Phil was here?" Blythe asked.

"Uh huh."

He turned the wheel and the car creepedout of the parking space. Blythe waited until he'd turned to face the windshield again and put the car into first gear.

"Did your father tell you he was here?"

Greg shook his head. "I saw him last week after practice, with the kid."

The car jerked slightly as Greg eased off the clutch, but the engine didn't stall. His shift into second was a little smoother. Maybe John had finally added up the numbers from all those years ago, and figured out what had happened. Maybe he didn't blame her because he blamed Phil.

Greg pulled up to a stop sign at the end of the parking lot and eased the clutch in again. He signaled for a right turn and pulled onto the road, the car giving another slight jerk as the gear engaged.

John was as bad as she was, Blythe thought. He probably figured that if he didn't talk about Phil, then somehow they could ignore everything that had happened.

"He didn't say anything because he was jealous," Greg said.

"Jealous?" Blythe looked at him, and wondered if she'd said something out loud.

Greg glanced over at her. "You've got that look," he said. "You're trying to figure out someone's secret."

"I didn't know I had a look."

"Believe me, you do." Greg shifted up into second, then into third. "Dad's jealous because Phil's been promoted above him. He's a lieutenant colonel now."

John had been a major for years, and had been passed over for promotion twice. Rank. That would make sense.

"It's stupid," Greg said. "Who cares what rank you are?"

"The Marines do, dear," Blythe said, "and so does your father."

Greg ignored her. "It's all politics. Get the right assignment, and you get promoted. Make the brass look good, and you get promoted. Kiss the right person's --"

"Greg," Blythe warned.

"-- ass," he said, "and you get promoted."

He shifted down as he slowed to make the left turn onto their street. "It's stupid," he repeated.

"It's the way the world works, Greg," she said.

"Then the world is stupid too." He flicked the turn signal on and waited for traffic to clear.

Blythe watched Greg make the turn, his hands moving from the steering wheel to the stick shift, to the wheel and back again. He slid smoothly into first this time, smiling slightly as he did it. Blythe smiled too. Greg was right -- rank was a stupid thing to get in the way of friendship, and John could use all the friends he could get. They all could.


	29. Chapter 29

Greg slouched further down into his coat, as if he could disappear like the coins did in his magic tricks, or at least fade into the background. His hands were in his pockets and Blythe could hear his shoes scuff against the concrete. She fought the urge to tell him to stand up straight and pick up his feet when he walked.

He followed a few steps behind her and the student tour guide as they crossed another campus courtyard, the buildings around them made of gray stone that reflected the late autumn sky and Greg's mood.

He hadn't wanted to come here. Blythe had insisted.

"What's so bad about visiting Harvard?" she'd asked last week. "We're going to Yale, to Columbia, to Brown, to --"

"And why not just stop at Annapolis while you're there?" John had added. "Just to take a look."

"Harvard's pretentious," Greg had said, "and I'm looking for a college, not military school."

John just grunted. He always claimed that he wanted Greg to make his own path in life. "Be your own man," he'd say. But Blythe knew there was a part of him that still hoped Greg would follow his steps.

When Greg was a baby, John bought him toy airplanes. Later he'd buy model airplanes, and sit with him at the table, the two of them piecing together bodies and wings and landing gear from bits of hard plastic until their fingers were sticky from the glue.

"He wants to be a doctor," Blythe had reminded him that night.

"That's what he says now," John said. "Before that he wanted to be a scientist, and before that he was going to be a chemist, and before that he was going to be an archeologist, and then ..."

"He isn't going to change his mind this time."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I am." Blythe smiled, picturing Greg hunched over an old medical text book he'd found at a garage sale, then imagining him in a white coat someday, his stethoscope slung over his neck.

This four-day whirlwind tour of campuses might be their last adventure together, Blythe knew. He wanted to narrow down his choices. Blythe wanted to be there at the start of his next journey, even if he'd finish it on his own. She'd insisted on adding Harvard to his list.

"It won't hurt to look," she'd said.

She'd wondered why Greg didn't want to apply there. He could get in. He'd been hearing from some of the top colleges in the country ever since his SAT scores came out. Harvard was the best school there was, with the best medical program. Greg deserved the best, and Blythe wanted it for him, even if didn't want it for himself.

When they first arrived at the campus, she'd fallen in love with the stone and red brick buildings, the classical architecture, the old trees that filled every green space. There was history here. There were roots that went back for centuries, roots that Greg had never gotten from temporary housing at one air base that looked exactly like the last. Blythe realized that the four years Greg would spend in college would be the longest he'd ever stayed in one place. It should be the right place.

The tour guide pointed to a statue on the other side of the courtyard, and Blythe turned to look at it. Greg glanced in its direction, then looked away. He wasn't sulking. Blythe knew what that looked like. And she knew this look as well. He was taking in everything around him, silently weighing its value, and at the same time finding that value lacking. She followed his gaze to the students gathered in front of one building.

They looked perfect. Young and lean and beautiful. They laughed and she smiled. The tour guide said something about giving them time to look around for themselves and wandered off to talk to someone else.

Blythe stepped closer to Greg. "Wouldn't you like to be here?"

He shrugged. "Not my style," he said.

The students were making their way across the lawn now, and Blythe tried to picture Greg walking alongside them. She couldn't. She could see him as a doctor, but not this. Not here. She tried again, seeing Greg's loose limbed gait, his book bag slung across his shoulder. But even in her imagination, he was set apart from the others – alongside them but not one of them.

She turned to look at Greg again, saw the way his shoulders were set tight, his eyes drawn together. She wondered what it was he was seeing that she didn't see, what future he was imagining for himself here.

Blythe loved the idea of Harvard for Greg because of its roots and traditions, its reputation. Maybe Greg saw it as yet another place where he wouldn't fit in, a place filled with rules and regulations – its history as confining as the rules on every base where they'd lived.

She wanted the best for Greg, but she was beginning to guess that what was best for him might not be what she wanted.

Blythe had been making decisions about what she thought would be best for Greg since before he was born. Maybe it was time to trust him to figure things out for himself.

"You can go wherever you want, honey." She squeezed his arm, and he looked down at her. She thought his eyes seemed to soften a little, and his posture eased slightly. He smiled slightly, the first time he'd seemed happy since they took the exit toward Cambridge.

"Don't worry," he said, his smile widening. "I will."


	30. Chapter 30

They were alone for their last night together. It felt familiar – the three of them, saying a silent goodbye, not knowing when they'd all be together again. Every other time, it had been John who was leaving. This time, it was Greg.

Blythe offered to make enough for food for all of Greg's friends, but he shook his head.

"What friends?"

Blythe sighed. If they were still at Quantico there would have been boys from his team, boys from class. But here in Arizona, there was no one.

Sometimes it seemed like the ultimate insult from the Marines, John's transfer coming just weeks into Greg's final semester, his senior year spent divided between what he'd had and what he'd lost, spent alone.

Blythe had begged John on Greg's behalf to delay the transfer, even knowing he'd never turn down an order. She'd considered finding enough money to rent an apartment for her and Greg alone in Virginia, just for a few months so he could finish out the year. She couldn't make the numbers work.

By February they had packed up and moved southwest to the dry desert town on the Mexican border.

Greg claimed he didn't care.

"It's not like I'm going to see anyone after graduation anyway," he said, but Blythe had seen him staring at their house as they pulled out of the driveway in Quantico for the last time, watching it fade into the background in the mirror.

She and John sat side-by-side at Greg's graduation. They didn't recognize any of the other families, and they were the only ones to cheer when they called his name, the scatterings of polite applause only seeming to echo even more in the gymnasium.

Greg spent the summer counting down the days until his flight to Baltimore, working odd jobs to fill the hours and making lists of everything he'd need.

As the days ticked down to hours, he paced through the house, checking everything he'd packed into the two suitcases that he would take on the flight with him along with the battered guitar case that held the acoustic guitar he'd bought second hand in South Carolina years ago.

He stood at the kitchen doorway now, staring out the window, his fingers tapping out the rhythm to some song in his head.

Blythe was reminded of Lexington, of visiting horse farms and seeing thoroughbreds in their stalls, staring out the barn doors at the open fields beyond, waiting to be turned loose, to be set free, to run.

She brought up the old stories as they ate supper together, trying to fill Greg's memory with happy moments – days in Egypt, in Japan, in San Diego and Virginia.

That night, she went through their photo albums, her fingers pausing briefly over the image of Greg as a baby, and as a toddler, sitting on John's shoulders with both of them waving at the camera.

"You should take some of these with you," she said.

Greg shook his head. "I can remember what you look like," he said.

After he went to bed, Blythe eased a photo out from the album's pages. Greg was five years old and they were Athens. John had just returned from a three-week tour out in the Adriatic and Greg had run out to meet him. In the picture, John was in uniform, holding Greg in one arm, the other wrapped around Blythe's shoulder.

Blythe eased open the zipper on one of Greg's suitcases and slid the photo between the folds of one of his shirts.

John told her not to cry the next morning as they drove Greg to the airport. "He's only going to college," he reminded her.

"I'm not making any promises," she said.

She didn't cry, though. Not then. Not as she hugged him goodbye, and told him to write.

"I'm so proud of you," she said. "I love you."

"I love you too," he whispered in her ear.

"I'll see you at Christmas," she said, and he nodded.

She didn't cry as she watched him walk out to the plane. She didn't cry as they watched the plane taxi out to the runway, pick up speed and lift off the ground, gain altitude and climb up to the clouds.

She didn't cry on the drive home, John silently making the turns back to the base, back to their house.

She didn't cry when John kissed her on the cheek and told her he was going in to the office to finish up some paperwork.

She didn't feel the tears until she'd walked into the house alone and closed the door behind her, the door latch echoing in the empty house.

Blythe walked to Greg's room, and pushed open the door. The desk had been cleared of its books. There were no shoes in the corner of the room. The hangers in the closet were empty.

She sat on the edge of his bed, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and took a deep breath.

"Now what?"


	31. Chapter 31

Weeks stretched out in front of her. Days. Hours. Minutes. Sometimes Blythe would watch the clock and feel eternity pass before the second hand moved. Her life had gone quiet. She had always thought that John was the one who set the rhythm of their lives: when to eat, where they lived, what they did, how they reacted to the world around them. But without Greg, she discovered her life had lost its form.

There was no need to knock on his bedroom door three times each morning before he'd finally stumble out half dressed. No anxious minutes waiting for him to gulp down his breakfast and get out the door. No calls from the school office. No meetings to schedule with teachers and counselors. No practice times penciled on the calendar. No games. No reminders about how he should get to bed because he had an early day the next morning.

Blythe tried to settle into some new routine, but each routine seemed to have no real meaning. Without Greg there to prod and push out the door, there seemed to be little need to get up at all some days. John had always woken before she did. He'd be up before the alarm even sounded, and would have coffee percolating on the stove by the time she crawled out from between the sheets.

"I like the quiet," he'd said once, early in their marriage, when she had made an effort to get up when he did. So she'd given him that time to himself. Now that she had time for herself, and wasn't sure what that meant.

The quiet seemed to be everywhere. Blythe would turn on the radio or TV for company, but the sounds echoed off the walls, as if Greg had taken away more than his books and clothes when he flew off to school, as if he had taken the very air out of her life.

She tried to find some new purpose, something to fill her hours. She was too young for the women at the Officer's Club, with their gin and tonics, their white wine spritzers, their games of bridge and pinochle. She had no reason to help out with the PTA at the school.

Blythe felt like she'd been forced into an early retirement, and thought she finally understood how hard it had been when John had given up active duty flight assignments and instead was told to instruct younger pilots.

"You're not old," she'd told him back then, when he was the one trying to find his place. "They still need you."

But she wasn't sure now if anyone needed her. Except for John. Or maybe she was the one who needed him now, needed to know that she still had a place in the world. A purpose. After so many years as a wife and mother, Blythe wasn't sure what else she was supposed to be.

John seemed to adjust to their new life so easily, as if Greg had barely been there, as if the world barely seemed to affect him at all. though she told herself that she knew better, that he just didn't show the way he felt. John was like a stone dropped into the still water that had been Blythe's life. So was Greg. Blythe was the one trying to ride the waves they each set off, bobbing up and down to keep her head above water.

But she didn't regret the ride. It wasn't until Greg left that she realized how much she'd come to thrive in that turmoil they left in their wake, how much she'd enjoyed her life. She was like a cormorant in heavy surf at the ocean's edge, skirting past the waves, ignoring the whitewater and diving deep into the water again and again, and emerging with a prize in its beak. It was the life she'd chosen. The life she loved.

Now it had changed, the waters around her calming for first time in so many years, and she'd have to find some way to change too.

Winter brought cooler temperatures and rain to the desert. Storms that sprang up from the mountains, and flash floods that filled the canyons and arroyos with rushing water, water that filled the dry riverbeds in just hours.

And in late winter, the desert came alive: the yellow of the brittlebush, the orange of a desert poppy, the dark blues and purple of the lupine, even the red blossom of the barrel cactus. Something new, something unexpected, something still alive where she'd never expected anything except the brown of the desert.

She walked with John on the rocks and sand on a trail he'd found, up among the foothills outside the base. He reached down to take her hand as they neared the top of a hill. The valley floor below them was thick with blue and yellow and pink.

"I saw this on a training flight the other day," he said. "I knew you'd love it."

Blythe shaded her eyes, and looked out across the wildflowers. "I do," she said. Another surprise, just when she thought she knew what to expect. She took her hand down, and turned to John. "And I love you too."

"I never doubted it," he said, and leaned down to kiss her.

Blythe felt the warmth of the sun on his skin, smelled his aftershave as he held her close, sensed her breathing slowing to match the rhythm of his breath. So much felt the same as it always had, even though so much had changed. Even though it would keep on changing, and so would she, floating along on the ripples, finding peace in the motion.

"Are you happy?" John asked.

She looked up at him and smiled. "Always."

_AN: "Blythe's Story" will be 32 chapters. One more to go after this one._


	32. Chapter 32

Blythe watched them walk out to the car together, Greg seeming to stay a half-step ahead of James despite the cane and a touch of added stiffness she guessed came from too many hours cramped into the front seat.

They hadn't stayed long, hadn't even stayed long enough for Blythe to introduce him to some of John's friends, or to say hello to Sarah. That was probably Greg's plan, and the best she should have hoped for. James had spent the few spare minutes they had apologizing again and again – to her, to the chaplain, to the funeral home director. He'd given the funeral home a blank check, told the director to let him know if there were any other damages to pay for.

Greg had just settled himself on a chair and watched James, a satisfied smile on his face.

"I didn't do anything," he'd told Blythe when she saw the window. "Honest."

John would have been mortified, but that didn't matter. Not anymore. Greg had walked out of the room looking better than he had when she'd seen him just moments earlier. He somehow even seemed younger. She could see the boy he had once been clearly for the first time in years. If the window and a few curious looks and whispers were the last pieces of collateral damage in his war with John, they were worth the price.

James had apologized again before they left. Greg had given her a hug, then paused a moment, looked down into her eyes.

"Don't worry," she'd told him, and tried to smile. "I'll be all right."

His eyes narrowed, his head turned slightly to the side. She recognized the look he had whenever he was working out some problem in his head. Finally he nodded. "You'll be fine," he said.

Now Blythe lingered at the door a moment longer, watched as Greg eased himself down into the car and said something to James just before the engine started and they pulled away. She watched the silver sedan ease slowly down the road, then turn left at the corner and pass out of sight.

"So that was Greg."

Blythe turned, and saw Phil standing just behind her, looking past her to the empty street. She nodded.

"Not exactly what I expected," he said.

"He never was," Blythe said.

The mourners were gathered in small groups – the retired offers telling stories on one side of the room, her sister and brother-in-law gathering cards from the flowers and plants scattered around the room, her nieces looking over the photo albums that Blythe brought from home showing the three of them in so many different places.

"Did they give you a date for the burial yet?" Phil's voice was soft. He'd somehow managed to lose the harsh cadences of Marine speech since he'd retired. John never had.

"Next week," she said, "but you don't have to come. I told them I didn't need a graveside service. This was enough."

John had been pleased when he'd been granted permission for burial at Arlington. There were so many men dying overseas these days that they were starting to ration spaces, carefully selecting each new occupant. He saw it as some kind of validation for his years of service, like a medal or service ribbon.

"Of course he's happy," Greg had said when she'd told him. "It's the ultimate officer's club."

Greg had always found some excuse not to come and visit: patients, conferences, meetings. There had been a couple of weeks during the spring when she suspected he'd been sick – his voice sounding weak when she got him on the phone – but he'd never told her anything about it, and she'd decided not to push too hard. She was already watching John lose his battle day after day. She didn't think she could have borne the grief if the last meeting between John and Greg had ended in another fight.

Instead, she'd call, telling Greg what was happening, and use those few moments on the phone with him to escape, and remind herself of what else her life had brought her.

He'd tell her about some patient, or make up some story that would make her smile. Once he'd put the phone down and let her listen while he played a Schubert piece that he knew she loved.

Some of the men were leaving now, and they stopped on the way out to shake Blythe's hand, tell her again that they were sorry for her loss, tell her that John had been a good man.

Phil lingered, waited as the nieces left, as the officers and their wives left. He'd come alone. The last she'd heard, his latest marriage was shaky, and he was finding retirement too quiet for his taste.

The funeral home staff began quietly picking up the folding chairs, moving them into other rooms, where they were needed for other services. Phil finally picked up his coat, held it in his hands as he walked over to Blythe.

"I should get going," he said. "Are you going to be all right?"

Blythe remembered the certainty in Greg's eyes, the way he'd looked deep into her and seen something there. She felt herself draw strength from the memory. "I'll be fine."

Phil took two steps toward the door, then stopped, stood there for a moment, and turned back. He leaned down toward Blythe.

"This probably isn't the time or the place, but I don't know when we'll see each other again," he started, then took a breath. He looked around. No one else there. "I've always wondered," he whispered. "Greg, was he --" he looked around again, leaned down further. "Was he mine?"

It was the question she'd always expected, and the one no one ever asked. It was the one she used to fear. The one that used to keep her up at night. She could tell Phil now, clear her conscience. Sweep clean the one lie that had defined her life. She glanced over, saw John lying still in the open casket, saw the spot where Greg had been, where he'd finally accepted what John had meant in his life. She thought of John holding Greg when he was a baby, of John teaching him to swim, and how to ride a bike. She thought of picnics and fights and football games, and the day that Greg graduated from medical school -- and how John had cried when he thought no one was watching.

The truth was, one night meant nothing. There was nothing to lie about.

"John was Greg's father. He always was," she said, "and he always will be."

_Author's Note: That's the end folks. I hope you enjoyed it._


End file.
